


The ghost of you lingers

by doomed_spectacles



Series: Spooky Omens: 13 Days of Halloween! [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is a ghost, Bittersweet, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Feelings, Found Family, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Healing, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Porn with Feelings, Spooky, Talking about and dealing with the idea of death and the afterlife, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27104983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: Anthony Crowley, content with a hollow life full of temptations, finds himself on Mackinac Island, having inherited a giant house from a relative he never knew existed. When strange things start happening, he discovers that life at Abaddon Cottage is not at all what it first appears. Nor, perhaps, is he.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Spooky Omens: 13 Days of Halloween! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978405
Comments: 127
Kudos: 110
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	1. If you were here

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Racket's 13 days of Halloween. Day 1: Ghosts!
> 
> This is the only one of these that will be a multi-chapter story. It has taken over my brain and I hope someone enjoys it. This is basically the 1995 movie Casper, but with adults and a Good Omens twist. (Adults! Everyone here is an adult! Very adult things will be happening later. I have them mostly planned and will add tags and warnings as I go.)
> 
> Spookiness level: mild/medium  
> Sadness level: mild, going up to medium (high at times), but with a happy ending - this is a ghost story, so it won't be a traditional happy ending but it won't be a tragedy, either
> 
> A huge thank you to @Nymphalis_antiopa for the beta read!
> 
> (Main title and all chapter titles are from the band Spoon. Not sorry in the least - this fic is brought to you by the spooky weird music of Spoon.)

Crowley stepped on the first pile of manure shortly after he arrived. 

A breeze coming off the lake pushed his hair and the stench of horses into his face. He turned away from the wind to pull his hair into a band and his face into an even deeper scowl. His sunglasses did what they could to block the bright Michigan sun but he shaded his eyes against the glare of the water anyway. Cheerful tourists were cooing as they retrieved their bags, snapping selfies with his all-black outfit and deep red hair in the background. Crowley had been on the island for twenty minutes and he hated it already.

On the ferry from the northern tip of Michigan’s hand, the operators had made their spiel for a handful of tourists plus Crowley, the grumpy Londoner in fancy shoes, before conversing among themselves in Spanish. Crowley hadn’t taken any pictures of the bridge as it receded.

Shaking the horse dung off his snake-skin boots, he faced the interior of the island and nodded to the man who held a sign with “Mr. Crawly” typed in comic sans. He tried to extend the handle on his roller bag but the porter, an elderly man with a bent back and a crisp uniform, insisted on taking it in his little cart. Crowley curled his lip but didn’t argue. The porter led the way silently past a row of hotels and pristinely-kept Victorian houses. Crowley wanted nothing to do with the culture of baggage handlers and elevator operators that everyone on his travels up to this point had insisted was “quaint.” But on the other hand, he didn’t have the foggiest idea where Abaddon Cottage was.

He stepped in five more piles of horse shit on the way while the porter silently avoided them all. They turned off the main road and spent several minutes walking through a forested path before stopping in front of a dilapidated wooden gate. Crowley had no idea how much to give the man so he erred on the side of generous. It earned him a raised eyebrow and little bow in return. If he had to play along with America’s version of servitude disguised as capitalism, Crowley supposed there wasn’t much point in making enemies. Not on an island the size of Westminster.

Crowley had seen pictures of the place, of course. But the last few weeks of correspondence and hasty planning had been such a blur he couldn’t honestly remember what the house he apparently now owned was supposed to look like.

It was _enormous_. In the phone calls and emails he’d gotten from the estate lawyer, it was referred to as “the cottage,” so Crowley had pictured something small. Cute, even. A little house tucked into the side of limestone cliffs overlooking a lake. What he walked up to was a dilapidated three-story wood-and-brick faced miniature mansion tucked into an alcove and surrounded by vegetation on all sides. It had a wrap-around porch with Adirondack chairs that badly needed a coat of paint. The entire place looked like it needed a coat of paint. Or a time machine.

Crowley stood, slack-jawed, for a good thirty seconds before finding the courage to fish the key out of his bag. 

He walked up to the door, thoughts flitting to and fro in his mind. Restoring a creepy mansion on an island in Michigan is not what he’d signed up for. He hadn’t signed up for any of this, actually. His entire life to this point felt like a series of events he hadn’t intended to sign up for one after another. His parents had left the U.K. for America when he was twelve and made it abundantly clear he wasn’t to come along. After the emotional fallout from _all that_ , he heard from them via perfunctory calls at Christmas. Then, they died. It was fine. Totally fine. He knew next to nothing of his family's history and didn't want to. Which is why he’d ignored the calls from an estate lawyer annoyingly called J. Tucker (what did the ‘J’ stand for?) for a good two weeks before they’d finally tracked him down through his last employer. 

His hitherto unknown great-aunt must have been nutty to live on this island in this gigantic house all by herself for decades. And she must've been _truly_ nuts to have left it to him, a completely unknown relative who didn’t even live in the states. The front door groaned in protest when he turned the key.

“Holy shit,” he said out loud. Crowley thought he heard an answering thump from somewhere deep within the house. Must be squirrels on the roof. Yep, squirrels. Sure. They had squirrels in Michigan, right?

Entering Abaddon Cottage was like going back in time via the mind of an eighty-year-old woman. Crowley ignored the boot rack next to the door. A stone tile entryway transitioned to a scuffed and dull hardwood floor. Cream-colored wallpaper with a swirly texture covered the walls of the foyer, accompanied by a warm wooden trim that didn’t at all hide how much dust had gathered in the crevices. His nutty aunt Agnes’s furnishings had been left as part of the estate transfer but the caretaker had covered them in white sheets, leaving the impression of a ghostly gathering. A haunted book club, ready to begin.

Crowley dumped his shoulder bag on a covered chair, wrinkling his nose at the little poof of dust that rose at the contact. There’d better not be spiders in here. 

He was certain there’d be spiders.

Though it was only five the light was waning, bathing the interior of the house in an odd reddish-orange hue. Crowley walked through the main floor sitting room, noting squeaks in the wooden floorboards and humming a tune to fill the silence. A huge chandelier hanging from the high ceiling in front of a grand staircase was the main feature of the front of the house. On the other side of the staircase from the sitting room, tucked into the corner, was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It took up the entire space from the edge of the stairs to the exterior wall and even had one of those rolling ladders. An ugly wingback chair was tucked into the corner, alone.

The kitchen and bathroom made up the back half of the house’s first floor. Crowley flipped the switch on the bathroom light but nothing happened. The shower was basic, tiled in grimy white squares. Crowley tried not to think of the stabbing scene from _Psycho_ but the images appeared in his head anyway. He moved on.

Upstairs were two sparsely-furnished bedrooms, one with mint green wallpaper and one with a more tasteful rose pattern. Both were old-fashioned but in a way that seemed cozy rather than gauche. A layer of dust covered every surface in both rooms and neither of the lights worked. Despite himself, Crowley could see potential here. Someone, God only knows who, could stay here. Someone who wanted to escape their life in the real world. Someone who could stand to live in a creaky Victorian-era house on an island they couldn’t easily leave. Someone who wasn't him.

Crowley made it to the third floor, which consisted entirely of the master suite and the attic. He flopped down on the bed, finding it adequately comfortable. He rolled over and took a surprised breath. The window on the side wall opened with a view directly onto the lake. It faced west and the bloody eye of the sun stared back at him as it descended. He looked away.

The master suite had a detached wardrobe and a bathroom that mirrored the one downstairs. The clawfoot tub was old but large and the tile in here was in much better shape. Crowley nodded. None of this was his style but he could live with it until he figured out what to do with the property.

He stood at the window and looked down on the grounds. Despite being late in the season, the snarled roots and branches that seemed to take over just past the patio were still covered in deep green leaves. Crowley spied a large witch hazel that needed to be pruned back, chokeberries starting to develop, and a ravenous ivy growing along the back fence. Vines crawled up the walls of a tiny shed like disembodied arms reaching for the light. Bare tomato cages and garden stakes stood out like headstones in the middle of a decaying garden bed in the corner of the lot.

The sound of a slamming door broke the silence. He jumped back, heart beating wildly. 

Crowley looked back at the empty room and this time he saw sadness. The four-poster bed stood stalwart against the march of time, covered by a threadbare quilt that had clearly been made by hand a long time ago. A wooden rocking chair in the corner was also covered in a quilt with a similar pattern. Crowley tried not to think about the lineage of women who’d woven these quilts for their families, never imagining they’d end up the last remnants of life in a barren house. 

His ribcage felt as hollow as this place did. He had to leave.

Crowley locked the door as the last rays of light peeked over the horizon. He jammed his hands in his pockets as he walked towards downtown. To his right, dark water blended into the inky purple-black of the sky. Off in the distance, the bridge connecting the two pieces of Michigan looked like a ghostly ligament barely holding the land’s body together.

Mackinac Island’s downtown was a block of Americana fused irreparably with schmaltzy capitalist ventures. There were too many fudge shops — what was it with small towns and fudge? — and too few bars. Crowley entered one that wasn’t yet packed with tourists waving cameras in the air. The decor was old-timey. Like the place had been plucked out of a Western movie set and plopped down on an island.

Crowley chose an empty spot at the bar and picked up a menu. He blanched, then put it down.

“What’ve you got for gin?” he asked the bartender, a kid in his twenties whose vibe screamed ‘hipster.’ Behind him, Crowley spied a messenger bag and a hoverboard propped against the bar. The kid looked over his shoulder, where bottles of mediocre spirits were displayed in front of a large mirror.

“Uh, Seagrams?”

Crowley ordered a beer.

While the kid poured, Crowley glanced around at the Tuesday evening bar crowd. The tourists were easily catalogued and mentally set aside. Vacationing human wallpaper, boisterous but ignorable. Sitting on the opposite side of the bar was a man who looked like a pile of rags come to life. He had hair on his face that couldn’t be called a beard but was more than stubble. He could’ve been anywhere from fifty to seventy years old and was nursing a Scotch that looked far more appetizing than the yellow beverage the kid set in front of him on a branded napkin.

Before he could put on a proper scowl, Crowley spied a woman with bright orange hair heading his way. He took a big gulp of beer to appear occupied and immediately wished he hadn’t. The disgusting chemical taste went up his nose and he choked on it.

“Ngk-”

“There, there, love,” the woman said, patting his back as he struggled to regain his breath.

Crowley managed to swallow and stuck out his tongue in protest. He wished he could magically purge the drink from his system. Meanwhile, the orange-haired woman was staring at him with a smile that was kind, if a little too friendly for his liking.

“You must be Mr. Crawly, then,” she said. 

“Crowley,” he croaked. She waved a dainty hand in the air.

“We’d heard you’d be arriving soon. How’s the house treating you so far?”

“How- I-”

She just smiled again, which crinkled the heavy makeup around her eyes. “News travels fast around these parts, you see. Plus, we don’t see many British people! It’s all very exciting.”

He nodded. His boss had warned him something like this would happen. Their exact words were: “They’ll put you under a microscope like a fucking moth with pins in it but they’ll do it all nice, cuz English is the kind of foreigner they like.” Beez was, unfortunately, usually right.

“I’m Tracy.” She extended a hand and he took it. She was wearing several large rings that matched one of several necklaces. Her entire outfit was loud and yet, he found he couldn’t hate it. Or her. Her smile was genuine but it also held something back. Tracy seemed like a woman who was delighted by the secrets she kept. 

She handed him a card. “You’ll find me off Jasmine Way. Your dear auntie and I, well-” she batted her extremely thick fake eyelashes, “we got up to all sorts of trouble, we did.”

Crowley, who until a month ago had no idea his great-aunt Agnes existed, had no idea what to make of that.

“She was a sprightly one, that Agnes,” Tracy said, lifting her glass. She was drinking something very blue. “But I’m sure you’ll find out all about her _peculiarities_ , my dear.”

“What does that- I don’t-”

Tracy put a friendly hand on his arm. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Do call me if you need anything. _Anything at all_.” With a wink, she flitted off to the other end of the bar and started chatting up the pile-of-rags man.

Crowley blinked, then scanned the card she’d handed him. On one side it said, “Madame Tracy Draws Back the Veil - Thursdays, 8 p.m./Winter 7 p.m.” On the other side, “Madame Tracy’s Intimate Relaxation and Massage for the Discerning Customer - by appointment, except Thursdays.” He put it in his pocket. A band was starting to warm up and judging from the sound check, he didn’t want to be anywhere nearby when they got going for real. Crowley put down enough cash to cover his beer and left.

He ducked his head while purchasing a hot dog at the stand down by Windermere Point. It was windy and though he’d brought warmer clothes, he hadn’t bothered to unpack, so he fruitlessly pulled his stylish black jacket closer and crossed his arms. The picnic tables at the point were sparsely occupied but the street itself came alive as night fell. Music drifted out of the restaurants and hotels. He wandered among the crowds, totally alone. 

A rowdy group of four kids rushed by on bicycles, almost knocking him over. Their leader, a curly-haired kid of about ten or so, called a quick “sorry!” over his shoulder as they sped on towards unknown childhood adventures.

As he walked back to Abaddon Cottage, Crowley tried not to dwell on the circumstances that had landed him here. He walked past the gates to a snooty hotel where he could make out a bunch of white people in fancy clothes sipping cocktails on the lighted porch. The sign on the gate detailed the dress code, separated by “gentlemen” and “ladies.” He threw up a quick V in defiance of the bullshit binary and kept walking. 

Within a few minutes, he’d left the lighted lamps of the main street and entered the dark world of the rest of the island.

An inconsistently lit pedestrian path circled the island, so unless he ventured into the forested park in the middle, there was very little chance of getting lost. Still, the enormity of the lake on his left and the heavy damp feeling of the woods pressing in on his right made Crowley uneasy. His knew his life in London had a hole in it. He filled it, though. He found ways. His therapist called them his "temptations" but he just called it life. What was life without booze, sex, and making trouble? In the city he mostly managed to ignore the gaping wound where his heart should be — he could forget about the nights he woke in a panic, covered in a cold sweat with a heaving chest, looking for someone who wasn’t there. Out here, there was nothing to distract him. Nothing to fill the hole, just silence and dark woods and the lapping of ice-cold water at the rocks.

He used the map on his phone to find his way back to Abaddon Cottage. It lit the path and made halos appear in his vision so he didn’t have to contemplate the dark.

Crowley pushed open the door to the house and jumped at the ghostly furniture even though he’d left it barely a few hours before. He hung up his jacket and slung his bag over the coat rack. The main part of the island had been quiet in a domestic sort of way. The kind of quiet he imagined whenever someone talked about moving to the suburbs. Stillness punctuated by the giggles of children and a barking dog. It was the kind of quiet he imagined right before the “it’s not you, I just want to leave the city” conversation. 

The house was quiet in an altogether different way.

Abaddon Cottage was quiet like a deserted tube station at 2 a.m. was quiet. The kind of quiet where you can tell there’s a flickering light somewhere in the periphery but your eyes can’t find it. Quiet that makes the hairs on your arms stand at attention. Where anything at all could happen. The cottage he’d involuntarily inherited was still like a living being at rest, ready to wake.

Crowley flipped the switch next to the door, but nothing happened. Of course. The chandelier reflected pieces of moonlight coming in from the windows but otherwise remained dark.

He really didn’t go in for ghost stuff. He didn’t. It was bullshit that blokes used to scare dates. But jet lag, lingering seasickness from the ferry, and the antiseptic taste of what Americans called ‘beer’ left him off-kilter. He felt so far away from his life. His flat. His plants. How pathetic was it that a peace lily and an overpriced studio in the city was what he longed for? How hollow?

 _Squeak_.

 _Squeak_.

Silence.

It had been the floorboards. Must have. It was. Definitely. The squeaky wooden floor he’d tested this afternoon. Crowley looked down at his feet. He stood in the entryway. His shiny black shoes were motionless on a block of solid tile.

Crowley’s breathing was too loud and his body was too _everything_. Fear coursed through his veins making him aware of every texture against his skin and the chilly draft moving strands of his hair on his neck.

Silence.

He breathed out, then took a step forward. The only sound was his own boot striking the tile. He was being ridiculous. Crowley forced himself to walk confidently past where the tile gave way to wood and into the empty kitchen.

Flipping on the overhead light with a silent prayer of thanks for working electricity, he grabbed a dusty mug from the cupboard and rinsed it at the tap. Crowley found the pantry and searched for anything that might make a cup of tea. He was calm. Incredibly calm. Calm as a clam. Were clams calm? He’d be even calmer once he’d had a cup of tea. A salty sea smell he didn't remember from his brief tour a few hours ago filled his nose. Must've drifted in from an open window. He breathed it in and felt his body relaxing.

The pantry contained several cans of soup with very old paper labels, glass jars with unknown contents ranging from moldy-looking grains to liquids he didn’t want to think about, and several cobwebs. Right. No tea. A very old tin of drinking chocolate at the top of the cabinet appeared slightly less dusty than the rest, but it didn’t contain tea, so Crowley let it be.

He sighed. First on tomorrow’s to-do list was to procure tea, then. Crowly abandoned his mug and turned off the light.

He’d reached the threshold of the kitchen when he saw it. 

There — 

Something caught his roaming eye and held it, anchoring him in place.

The empty table at the center of the room wasn’t empty. A steaming mug was sitting just off from the center of the table. The chair closest to it had been pulled out as if waiting for someone to sit and curl his hands around the mug to feel its warmth.

The bottom dropped out of Crowley’s stomach.

Whisps of steam rose from a hot brown liquid. It was a white porcelain cup with — were those angel wings? The handle was shaped like a wing jutting out from the body of the mug. An angel not quite ready to fly, just casually spreading its wings, taking up space on a table that should be empty. 

Crowley blinked.

He ran up the stairs to the bedroom and slammed the door.

 _Shit_. 

The house was haunted. How was this happening? _Was_ this happening?

He couldn’t leave the island except by ferry the next morning. There were hardly any lights and he was practically in Canada and everyone on the island probably knew his dead nutty aunt and who knows what they’d been told about him. There were tourists everywhere — the kind of fake smiling happy families on holiday he despised in the place of his gut that also churned with longing. His car was in storage on the other side of the Atlantic. The only pubs on Main Street specialized in American beer and nothing else. He had no one to call in any time zone. 

And his house was haunted. 

Crowley realized, belatedly, that he had entered a very particular version of Hell. One that was tailor-made to psychologically torture one Anthony _‘I don’t need you’_ Crowley.

He plugged in his phone charger and adapter, then shoved earbuds in as snug as they would go. He played the first song that came up on shuffle and turned up the volume.

Fine. This was fine. Everything was fine.

Crowley was hallucinating in an empty house in the middle of nowhere, America, and he was completely and totally alone. 

Or, he wasn't.

He fell into a fitful sleep, wondering which possibility was worse.


	2. Would you calm me down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Racket's 13 days of Halloween, Day 11: Haunt!

Crowley woke the next morning with a very full bladder, feeling incredibly stupid. An earbud had fallen out of one ear and was smashed under his cheek. The other had stayed put, making his ear and the side of his face ache. It felt and tasted like something had died on his tongue. Right. He hadn’t bothered to brush his teeth before burrowing under the quilt like a child. He hadn’t even been brave enough to use the restroom when he woke around midnight. 

Sun was streaming cheerfully through the window on the side of the room that looked out over the street. Birds chirped. The whole cheery morning atmosphere was quite rude. He really had to piss.

Groaning, he flung the quilt aside and forced himself out of bed. In the light, his fears scattered like cockroaches.

Crowley showered, shaved, unpacked his meager toiletries, and stood at the base of the stairs, triumphant. His house wasn’t haunted. That was ridiculous. He was a grown man in possession of his faculties. Crowley could handle being alone on an unfriendly continent sleeping in the bed of a complete stranger. It wasn’t the first time, after all.

He went downstairs.

The mug was gone.

Of course it was. Because it hadn’t been there in the first place. Crowley had imagined it, like he’d imagined the savage garden of his childhood nightmares. He’d always had an overactive imagination — his mother had been extremely clear on that. Crowley nodded to the empty kitchen, satisfied. He felt the silence pressing in, becoming a tangible thing holding him down. Crowley grabbed his bag and fled the house.

On his walk to the only market on the island, he checked emails. Confirmation of internet installation for an eight-hour window on one of several days next week, which was vague enough to enrage him and soon enough to make him sigh in relief. Several missives from Beez that increased in intensity as time went on. Documents to sign, invoices to review from their last contract, blah blah blah — the ‘no internet’ excuse would hold them off a little longer. Spam. Advertisements for sex toys, one of which made him turn his phone upside down to figure out how it might work.

A group of pre-teens on horses trotted by, scaring the living daylights out of him. “Sorry!” called their leader, the same curly-haired kid from last night. This time, one of the other boys turned in his saddle, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Sorry, but actually you should watch out when you’re walking around here because the horses are quite big, you see.”

“Ngk,” Crowley replied.

He got coffee at a small shop he tried not to find charming, then wandered through downtown until the crowds and the sun overwhelmed his senses, which were calibrated for grey city skies and city traffic, not chubby smiling children and more bicycles than the fucking Tour de France. 

The general store had small-town schtick dialed up to eleven, but Crowley found the fresh produce and perishable goods well-stocked. It would do. He slung a basket over his arm and wandered the aisles, picking items without a plan. Plans were for… people with plans.

Near the beans, a surly-looking pre-teen was texting. He turned abruptly, shoving into Crowley and knocking a few items off the shelf. The kid didn’t turn around.

“Oi-”

“What?”

Crowley gestured to the cans they’d knocked over and the kid rolled his eyes. He made an exaggerated display of setting aside his baskets and bending to pick up a can of tomato soup. “Come on now, be a decent human, yeah?”

“Whatever,” the kid said. He shoved the phone in his pocket and picked up one fallen bag of lentils. He shoved on the shelf in a place it clearly didn’t belong, then grabbed his phone.

“Other humans exist, you know,” Crowley muttered, picking up the rest of the fallen items. “You could have a little compassion for other living beings besides yourself.”

“Dude, whatever. That’s _their_ job,” he said with a sneer. “Do you have any idea who my dad is?”

“Nope,” Crowley replied, popping the ‘p’. He retrieved his own bags and raised his eyebrows above his sunglasses at the obnoxious kid. “Don’t care.”

“Well you should. My dad is the ambassador to the United Kingdom, so-”

“So as a citizen of said United Kingdom, you can tell your dad to fu-”

“-Warlock?” A harried-looking woman appeared and grabbed the kid’s hand. “Let’s go, I only have a few minutes to get to my spa appointment.”

The kid, apparently named _Warlock_ for Christ’s sake, gave him a dirty look as his mother dragged him out of the store.

Crowley sighed, then brought his purchases to the desk.

“Don’t mind them,” the cheerful cashier said, “they’ll only be here a few more weeks. Then you’ll have the island to yourself practically. Aside from us locals!” He was a portly man with a cheery mustache and rosy cheeks. If you looked up ‘average American dad’ in the dictionary, his picture could appear in lieu of a definition.

“Ah, thanks, I guess.” Crowley started handing over his items but the man took his basket.

“Let me get that, Mr. Crawly!”

“Crowley. How did you-”

“News travels fast around here,” he said. “My name’s Mr. Young. My wife and I own the shop. You just tell us anything you need and we’ll send young Adam ‘round.” 

Crowley spied the pictures behind the counter. Mr. Young and his wife, a pretty woman with short hair, were smiling in the background with their arms around a boy the same age of the obnoxious one he’d bumped into. Their son was the curly-haired kid who’d almost run him down twice. And who’d apologized both times.

Catching him looking, Mr. Young said, “Ah, that’s Deidre. And Adam.” He shook his head as he scanned Crowley’s items without looking at them. “If he causes you any trouble, Mr. Crawly-”

“Crowley.”

“Mr. Crowley- I want you to tell me, straight away. Don’t spare no feelings, you hear?”

“Right,” Crowley said. “Scouts honor.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Young sounded relieved. “Now, how’re you getting on in-” he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “-that _house_ of yours?”

“Ah-”

“Only- well. You let us know if you need anything. Anything at _all_.” Mr. Young gave him a look that seemed to communicate a hidden meaning. Whatever it was flew right over Crowley’s head.

“Right. Yes, of course, I-”

“Good. I suspect you’ll have Gabriel all over you soon enough.”

“I- Gabriel?”

Mr. Young leaned in again, practically vaulting over the counter. He whispered, “Real estate. One of them fancy developers. Gave me a very tempting offer for this place last year.” Mr. Young leaned back and folded his arms. “Didn’t take it of course. This is a family business. No place for predatory capitalism around here.”

Crowley nodded, dumbfounded at the one-eighty in the man’s demeanor and the completely unexpected political view. “I- sure,” he stammered.

“Now, some good old-fashioned nepotism, _that_ I see no problem with!” Mr. Young said, laughing and looking pointedly at the other picture behind the counter. It showed a younger version of himself, along with an older man who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Young and several other men who looked like local government-types. A family business, he’d said. Right.

Crowley paused, then laughed along with him. It seemed like the thing to do.

He escaped from the general store with a few more pleasantries, a firm handshake, and another offer from Mr. Young to let him know if he needed anything at all. Crowley was determined not to need anything. And if he ever admitted he did, Mr. Young definitely wouldn’t be the one to provide it. 

He made it to Abaddon Cottage carrying four paper bags full of provisions, grumbling at the idea that he, Anthony Crowley, might need a bicycle with a basket. He refused to set the bags down while he fished around for the key in his pocket. As he rearranged the bags, setting one on a cocked hip, a shadowy movement from the upper windows of the house caught his eye. For half a second, he could swear he saw the outline of a person with broad shoulders standing in his bedroom. 

Crowley focused on the third-floor window, the one that had let in such intense sunlight this morning, but it was empty. There was no one there. Crowley shook his head. Jesus, this place. It was getting to him. He was still jet-lagged. That’s all it was.

Pushing open the heavy cottage door, Crowley lost his grip on the bag on his hip and the contents spilled onto the entryway floor. As if in slow motion, he watched a ripe melon tumble out of his arms and smash open on the tile floor. Bright orange innards splattered across the tile and his shoes. If he were up for a bit of fruit haruspexy, he’d be all set. Crowley sighed.

He gathered what he could of the groceries. Crowley set the bags down in the kitchen, then returned to the hall to clean up the smashed melon. He paused, mourning the death of his idea for a fruit salad. 

Before placing anything inside the ancient refrigerator, he wiped it down, making a note on his to-do app to either hire a cleaner or do a deep clean himself. The pantry shelves were disgusting and he didn’t have the stomach to unseal those jars yet. He set an unopened bag of coffee and a box of tea on the counter next to a truly ancient-looking kettle.

He plugged his phone into the outlet next to the stove and sparks started flying. Thoroughly startled — again — he added “get an electrician” to his notes app. Crowley turned the volume on his phone speakers all the way up and continued playing whatever had left off last night.

_The signal's a cough_   
_But that don't get me off_   
_I summon you to appear my love_   
_Got the weight of the world_   
_I summon you here my love_

He put away the remainder of the groceries, then turned off the music and sat at the kitchen table — empty, no angel wings in sight — to check emails. He placed an order for a new electric kettle, then browsed real estate listings on the island for a while. From outside, he heard the sounds of kids playing raucous games and the occasional trop-trop-trop of horses as they came down the road, leaving a manure stench in their wake.

Bang!

A loud crash from somewhere — he couldn't tell where — brought his shoulders to his ears. 

The silence that followed it thundered. Crowley breathed out, forcing himself to relax. He put his phone away, rubbing his tired eyes. The sunlight was waning and he hadn’t been out to see the gardens yet. Crowley was halfway out the screen door when he saw it out of the corner of his eye — 

A mug.

Sitting in the sink.

The angel wings handle taunted him. He breathed out slowly. There was brown sludge in the bottom of the mug and a ring around the drain as if the contents had been recently dumped. Crowley froze. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. He seethed with a quiet fear tinged with anger.

_Fucking fuckity fuck!_

He slammed the screen door and stalked into the yard.

"THIS IS NOT HAPPENING!" He picked a haughty red viburnum and shouted at it. The shrub didn't respond. "This is not happening," he repeated, quieter this time.

Crowley stalked the garden, not really seeing the landscape.

He pulled at his hair, then tied the top half in a loose bun. The wind picked up, passing right through his thin black shirt. Crowley slowed, willing his heart to stop racing. He felt hot tears pressing against the back of his eyes and an accompanying wave of humiliation. Here he was again, alone in a garden, crying to no one. He felt the greenery and the horse-flecked wind closing in and a sudden need to fly. This house, this island, this life of his — it trapped him. Crowley balled his fists. He needed speed. He needed noise. He needed — he _needed_.

As night fell on Abaddon Cottage, Crowley made a decision. Haunted or no, he owned this house for the foreseeable future. He alone was responsible for it. He was alone.

Crowley re-entered the kitchen. He washed the angel wing mug and set it down hard next to the sink. The house was dark and silent. Crowley turned on the kitchen light, defiant. He glanced at the hallway where his melon had crashed against the hard floor. The chandelier swayed in the breeze from a window he didn’t remember opening.

The chandelier. He could fix it. He could bring a little bit of light into the darkness of his world. _Please_ , he thought, _let me have light_.

Crowley pulled open a hall closet and ignored the spiderweb stretching across the shelves. He found a box of specialty light bulbs. As if in a trance, he brought the box to the hallway. He dragged the wingback chair from the reading alcove underneath the chandelier, then balanced a kitchen chair on top of it.

He climbed his improvised ladder.

He reached for the light fixture — 

“Fuck-”

Crowley fell.

Several things happened at once.

His heart traveled from his rib cage to his throat. He realized, with a clarity he’d only felt once before, that he was going to die. The stone tile below him would crush his skull and that would be that. Alone in a house on an island where no one knew him, he’d die. Crowley felt a rush of adrenaline course through him as his arms flailed and he lost control. Something deep within, somewhere in his essence, rebelled — _No_! This was not the end of his story!

A cold blast of air whooshed in from the sitting room.

The nearest couch, a plush pink suede number, flew across the room. Its wooden legs screeched as they scuffed the wooden floor and then clattered across the tile. Crowley landed on the couch with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs. His head hit the armrest, hard.

A searing pain — then darkness.

Crowley woke with a start. He’d fallen. The back of his head throbbed and something watery was dribbling down his shoulder. But he wasn’t on the floor. His head had landed, not on the tile, but the arm of a pink couch. He was lying awkwardly on his side, arms and legs strewn across the uncomfortable Victorian couch like a fainting maiden. Above him, a man’s face hovered, lit only by the moonlight drifting in from the windows. His face wasn’t quite solid. He was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered.

“I’m afraid not.” 

The man's voice was clear but nothing else about him was. It was as if the opacity on his appearance had been dialed down. His hair was unnaturally white and his eyes were a deep green. “I’m, ah, rather more _occult_ than ethereal, one might say. Really, my dear, you simply _must_ be more careful.”

Crowley closed his eyes as a dull pain crept from his right ear past his temple. He took a few breaths in. The petrichor smell of the lakes and a bright antiseptic tang filled his senses. It was the smell of the water from up close, but it permeated the air in his living room. It smelled like the vastness of the great lakes, ready to swallow him whole.

He opened his eyes. The man was still standing over him. Still concerned. Still drop-dead gorgeous.

“Am I dead?”

“No,” the man said. “Although you _would_ be if I hadn’t been watching.” The man huffed. His demeanor changed on a dime from concerned to put-out. He looked like a faded photograph of a librarian, circa the 1800s. He even wore a bowtie. “I suppose explanations are in order. My name is Aziraphale. I live here. Well, ‘live’ is inaccurate. I _reside_ here.”

Crowley sat up on the couch, still situated at an odd angle to the rest of the parlor. Deep gouges in the wood floor showed its sudden progress across the sitting room. The man stood up straight and clasped his hands in front of his body. He shimmered, just a little.

“Aziraphale. Azrael. Angel,” Crowley said, connecting dots that definitely seemed connected. “I'm dead. That’s the logical conclusion here.”

“No, my dear, please let me explain-”

“Yep, I'm dead. I fell, hit my head and I'm gone. The fact that you're here to take me up to the pearly gates is either a clerical error or a very good joke at my expense.”

“You're not dead, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley ignored him, feeling hysteria building. A droplet of blood fell from his head onto his shoulder, soaking into his shirt. The blood had pooled at the edge of his sleeve. He watched, fascinated, as the droplets broke and ran in rivulets down his arm. Though he was watching it, he felt disconnected from everything that was happening to his body.

“Yeah, I'm dead. Okay, not how I expected things to go and I have to warn you, I have a ton of questions for your boss-”

“ _You're not dead_ , Crowley! _I am_!”

Crowley snapped his mouth shut. The man in the bowtie had an indignant look on his face, like he'd been explaining physics to a toddler and they weren't getting it. The silence was loud. Dramatically so.

“Let’s get you a cup of cocoa. That’ll set you to rights,” Aziraphale said, heading to the kitchen. He walked directly through the couch.

“Cocoa?” Crowley felt time slow down. The ground reeled underneath him and he reached for the edge of the sofa to steady himself. “ _You're_ the ghost. You're _my_ ghost. You were the one drinking cocoa and leaving the mugs-”

From the kitchen, Aziraphale’s voice called out, “Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, dear, do catch up.”

_Okay_. 

His house was definitely haunted. 

Well, then.

His house was haunted and his ghost was a little bitchy. But also kind? And gorgeous. Crowley stood on wobbly legs as his world realigned. 

He looked up at the still-dark chandelier that had failed to kill him, then down to the stained armrest of the sofa. Crowley gingerly put a hand to the base of his skull, hissing at a sharp stab of pain. When he pulled his hand back, his fingers shone with blood. It felt thin and watery on his fingers. His head was finally starting to ache.

From the kitchen, Aziraphale hummed a jaunty tune. Crowley heard the clatter of dishes and the building whistle of the kettle starting to boil. The silence receded. It was replaced by the sound of a man at home. A ghost, at home. His home. Standing motionless in the entryway of his haunted house, Crowley’s heart pounded in his ears. A feeling came over him — one he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t fear. Tears spilled onto his cheeks and he wiped them away with trembling hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---  
> 1) Savage garden, uh, yeah sorry for the Anne Rice reference but I’m of a certain age, so.  
> 2) Haruspexy is the (historical) practice of divination using entrails of a sacrificed animal.  
> 3) Song lyrics are “I Summon You” by Spoon.  
> 4) This is not happening. Yep, I’m old and this is an X Files reference. Either Jose Chung (season 3) and alternate/parallel realities or having to face things we really really really don’t want to be happening in the reality we’re living in (season 9).


	3. Feelings I fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter is LONG and not spooky in the slightest. We’re not over the spookies but this is where our author and our characters try to balance a mostly light-hearted tone with the seriousness inherent in the premise — a damaged man falls in love with a ghost.

They’d come to an arrangement.

Aziraphale agreed to make his presence known during waking hours. No appearing out of the ether and yelling ‘boo!’

(At times, his edges faded. When Aziraphale got excited about something or his attention wandered, his hands fluttered and the outline of his body became blurry, then returned to solid when he focused. The first time it happened, Crowley instinctively reached out to pull him back, before realizing he couldn’t. He was being ridiculous. He couldn’t pull Aziraphale back from wherever he went. He didn’t have that power. He’d never been able to pull anyone to him and get them to stay, even when he tried. 

Aziraphale promised to remain corporeal while Crowley was around, even doing a little salute to cap off his promise since they couldn’t shake hands. Crowley had tried but his hand went right through Aziraphale’s. In response, Aziraphale had put on a tight smile that contained a hint of irritation and several lifetimes of sadness.)

In return, Crowley would, under no circumstances, lose his shit.

Those weren’t his exact words but it was the gist of their agreement. It may have been the blood loss that made him say yes. Crowley had stumbled to the kitchen, pressing his hand weakly to a head that felt like it was stuffed full of straw with bits leaking out. He left a little trail of droplets down the hall to show his progress. At least he wouldn’t get lost.

Aziraphale had handed him a cup of cocoa in an angel mug. Crowley took it, staring down at the brown liquid in the cup, unsure what to do with his hands, face, mouth, and every other part of his body. Blood was still dripping onto his shoulder through his fingers.

“Oh dear, let’s get that wound sorted, shall we?” Aziraphale rushed past him to the hall closet, where he produced a set of hand mirrors, antiseptic, gauze, tape, scissors, and several old towels. Feeling disconnected from everything happening to him, Crowley wondered exactly how old the towels were and made a mental note to throw them out. 

In his haste, Aziraphale’s shoulder went right through Crowley’s body. He shivered as Aziraphale went through him — as if all the nerves where his body met Aziraphale’s spirit glitched before returning to normal. 

“Here we are,” Aziraphale said, passing him a mirror and a pair of scissors. “Now, they always look worse than they are, head wounds do.” He smiled reassuringly at Crowley.

A scream was still there, aborted, in Crowley’s throat.

What came out was something like, “ _Mngyahkay_.”

“It’s all right my dear. Let’s have a look, shall we?” Aziraphale handed him a mirror and gestured for him to raise it. He stood behind Crowley holding his own mirror so Crowley could see the back of his head through it. As soon as he moved away, the heavy watery smell that had permeated the kitchen receded. “Can you see?”

“I, uh-” Crowley focused on the hand mirror. It had a mother-of-pearl handle in a delicate pattern. It definitely belonged to an eighty-year-old woman. Or this old-fashioned ghost. Ghost in his kitchen. _Shit_. He felt the room start to spin. “Hold on, I-”

Crowley felt a faint pressure on his head, like a cool breeze but focused only in one spot. His scalp tingled. The cold pressure was moving up and down the back of his head, sending little pings of electricity down his spine. It was like an ice cube being slowly and gently pressed against the back of his head. Crowley breathed out slowly, feeling his panic subside.

When he felt steady again, Crowley held up the mirror but there was no one behind him in the reflection. 

Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m not much to look at in one of those, I’m afraid.”

Crowley turned. 

Behind him, clearly visible, was Aziraphale: a beautiful, staid man with a sad smile on his face and his hand raised. 

He’d been stroking Crowley’s head. It felt like being petted gently by Frosty the Snowman, Crowley thought, then wished he hadn’t. The moment had held a close intimacy that he’d ruined with a ridiculous analogy. What kind of ghost story had he found himself in? Was this a horror movie or a silly story for kids or something else entirely? Aziraphale was caring for him tenderly even though they’d just met, which should have set off all his defense mechanisms. He was an adult — he _didn’t need_ to be tenderly caressed on the head. But instead of flinching away, Crowley found that he missed the absence of Aziraphale’s ghostly touch.

“You’re-” Crowley reached out a hand tentatively, palm out. Aziraphale met his eyes and reached for him. His hand passed right through Crowley’s. As their bodies passed through one another, a cold tingling sensation traveled all the way up his arm. Aziraphale withdrew.

“I can’t hurt you, Crowley,” he said. “But I can’t _help_ , either, my dear.” His expression was soft but his eyes held a timeworn sorrow. Crowley knew Aziraphale was old but he didn’t know quite how old or what exactly that might mean. He had no idea what those beautiful eyes had seen before he’d turned up at the house and tried to make his jagged edges fit into its dusty compartments. “Turn around, please. We need to assess your wound, though it appears to have stopped bleeding.”

Crowley obeyed.

Aziraphale murmured as he peered at the side of Crowley’s head. He held his hair back while Aziraphale fussed over him. He felt strangely flushed, all of a sudden, as this strange man — _ghost_ — tried to take care of him without touching him.

“You might need to trim your hair right behind your ear, my dear, which is such a shame,” Aziraphale said, clicking his tongue. “You really do have such beautiful hair.”

“Thanks,” Crowley murmured. He felt around the bump starting to form on his head and took a bunch of hair in hand. “Here goes.” He cut it as close to his skin as he could. “How does that look?”

Aziraphale’s wobbly face was so close to his. If Aziraphale had been alive, Crowley would’ve felt his breath on his ear, but instead, he felt the lack of it. Crowley shivered again, but this time he wasn’t sure why. It was unnerving to be so close to someone and not feel a physical presence. Crowley grounded himself by staring at Aziraphale’s ear. It was a handsome ear. How much blood had he lost, exactly?

Aziraphale nodded. “You’ll have a sizable bump on your noggin, Mr. Crowley, but I don’t think the cut itself is deep enough to warrant stitches. And hopefully, it won’t leave too much of a scar on your lovely head.” 

He smiled at Crowley and it was like turning on a switch. Aziraphale’s smile was a lighthouse beacon with the power to break through the thickest fog. He opened the antiseptic bottle and dabbed some on the corner of a towel and left it on the table. “Now, apply that to the wound and let’s get some gauze on you.” He clapped his hands together as if they were about to embark on a grand adventure.

“You’re a regular angel,” Crowley said, only half-joking this time. Aziraphale gave him a wry look but it had a hint of mischief in it. “A guardian angel, in fact.”

“Don’t start with that again, dear.” The pout on Aziraphale’s face was coy — he clearly enjoyed the attention and his feeble resistance was as transparent as the rest of his body. He’d lost focus and everything under his shoulders was translucent.

Crowley winced as he cleaned his head with the stinging antiseptic. He nodded at Aziraphale’s missing body. “You, uh-”

“Oh! I do apologize,” Aziraphale said. “I forget myself sometimes.”

“So how does that-” Crowley waved vaguely with the hand not holding his head, “-whole thing work?”

Aziraphale looked down at his body, which was now completely visible. He clasped his hands in front of himself and looked off to the side, considering. Aziraphale was wearing a worn velvet waistcoat over a blue buttoned shirt. His bowtie was a tartan pattern that Crowley thought he’d seen somewhere else in the house but wasn’t sure where. He even had a pocket watch. Crowley wondered if it actually told the time or if it was as insubstantial as Aziraphale was.

“I can interact with the physical world just as you do, my dear,” he said. “Albeit I have some added— perks.”

“But you can’t touch _me_?”

“No. When I touch living beings it’s like water running through my hands. But otherwise, I assure you I’m quite solid when I choose to be.” Aziraphale smiled, then set to work tidying up the supplies they’d used.

“Huh,” said Crowley, astutely. 

He sat at the table, still holding gauze to his head and feeling strangely calm. As if conversing with a ghost in a haunted house thousands of miles away from his normal life was no big deal. Aziraphale _should_ have been terrifying — a spirit haunting him from beyond the grave. But all Crowley felt, in the moment, was relief. He still couldn’t decide which kind of ghost story this was, but he figured it could wait until morning. Aziraphale wasn’t going anywhere. He unwrapped a bandage and stuck it as best as he could to the sore spot above his ear. 

Aziraphale made a fresh cup of cocoa and set it in front of Crowley with an expectant look on his face. Crowley didn’t want cocoa. He drank three cups while Aziraphale chatted about topics he couldn’t for the life of him remember in the morning.

* * *

He was fucking things up. No matter how delicately Crowley wiggled the knob on the stove, it either charred his eggs or refused to transform them beyond a yellow watery slop. How much of a fuck-up do you have to be to fuck up _eggs_?

Crowley left the runny not-at-all-scrambled eggs alone for a minute to grind coffee beans. He’d found one working outlet and it was powering every device in the kitchen: Coffee grinder (he didn’t buy pre-ground coffee, he wasn’t a neanderthal), coffee maker, phone charger, and toaster oven. Whenever the Vita-mix he’d ordered arrived, it would have to power that, too. He set the coffee to brew, then smelled smoke-

“ _Ngh_ -”   
  
The third set of eggs were blackened and his kitchen smelled like a disaster. Crowley chucked the eggs in the sink and wiped his forehead, careful to avoid his throbbing right temple. If he hadn’t woken up with a terrible home haircut and a bandage on his head, he might’ve insisted he’d dreamed last night's near-death experience. He couldn’t write off the ghost who’d saved him as a dream, though — you couldn’t make up that combination of adorable and stuffy if you tried.

Crowley tried to relax and failed appallingly. He scrubbed at the pan with an ancient-looking brillo pad. “Fucking stupid fucking eggs from stupid fucking chickens-”

“Language, Crowley,” said a voice next to his ear. Crowley jumped a few feet to his left, got tangled up in a chair, and almost cracked his head on the floor. Again. “Good morning, my dear.”

“Fuck!”

Aziraphale pouted. Crowley was _not_ sorry. He wasn’t. The cute little edges of Aziraphale’s mouth turning down in a frown and his little dimples disappearing did absolutely nothing to his disposition whatsoever. _Nothing_.

“You said you wouldn’t!” he shouted, then felt ridiculous for shouting at a ghost in his kitchen.

Aziraphale ignored him. “Would you like some help? This thing can be quite tricky.”

The coffeemaker beeped loudly, making Crowley jump again.

“Drink your coffee and leave this to me,” Aziraphale said. Crowley had the feeling that he would’ve steered him by the elbow if he’d been able. He did as he was told and sat down. 

Coffee slightly decreased the tempo of the throbbing inside his skull. Crowley closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of it. Coffee was the scent of home. Of rightness and all that was good in the world. He wrapped his hands around his mug and focused on the smell of it. That heavy sea smell had reappeared — he hadn’t been able to get it out of his nose since last night. It was sharper than the lakes, though. A hint of ammonia, maybe?

While he worked, Aziraphale hummed a little tune that sounded familiar — like something out of an old Hanna-Barbara cartoon that was actually a famous piece of classical music he didn’t know. Crowley’s eyes were still closed but he felt the edges of his mouth curling up as he pictured Aziraphale in an apron, happily cooking him breakfast. When was the last time someone had made breakfast specifically with him in mind? Without an awkward conversation about expectations or trying to remember each other's names?

“Here you are, my dear!” Aziraphale said with a smile, setting a plate with a perfectly cooked french omelette in front of him.

“I- how- you-”

“Nothing to it,” Aziraphale said. He sat next to Crowley and leaned over his plate, taking a deep breath in. “That stove may be almost sixty years old but _I’m_ over two hundred!” He chuckled to himself, as if he’d personally put one over on the stove. He looked so pleased that Crowley would burn an entire carton of eggs if it would put that look on Aziraphale’s face again.

“Try it, please.” Crowley took a bite. The eggs were rich and creamy, with the perfect fluffy texture. 

“Tell me,” Aziraphale said, a little breathless. “How does it taste?” He looked at Crowley with a longing that made Crowley’s stomach do flips. All that longing was for the _eggs_ , right? He took another bite.

“It’s, uh, good.”

“And? The texture? Tell me about the flavor.”

“Creamy. Like, cheese?”

Aziraphale sat back, satisfied. He had a dreamy look on his face, as if he’d been the one savoring the meal. “It’s the technique. Not to mention all the butter. Amazing isn’t it?”

Crowley nodded, unsure what to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a sodding idiot who had no idea how to make eggs. Aziraphale smiled that brilliant smile at him again and Crowley had to duck his head under the intensity of it. “‘S really good, angel. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome my dear.”

They sat in amiable silence while Crowley ate, trading smiles. Aziraphale sat very close. Crowley knew it was so he could breathe in the scent of the food but he had a hard time convincing his heart to slow down.

After a few moments of silence, Crowley had to break it or he’d burst. “Chives,” he said.

“What?”

“Chives. Would go good on this, I mean. With this. Not that it’s not perfect as is, I mean, but-” Crowley tried to wrestle control over the sounds coming out of his mouth. “Wonder if there’s any in the garden. I could snip some, if there were. Just, uh, thinking.”

“There might be,” Aziraphale murmured. There was a look on his face Crowley couldn’t interpret and he’d gone a little fuzzy around the edges.

“Angel,” Crowley said, waving a little to get his attention. “Thank you.”

His ghost smiled again and it lit his entire face with an ethereal glow — no matter what Aziraphale may have said, ethereal was the only word Crowley could think of to describe him. Crowley finished eating and poured himself another cup of coffee.

“What’s on your docket today?” Aziraphale asked.

“Electrician. I found one on Yelp but I'm not really sure if it's a legit operation.” There hadn’t been many options on the island with same-day availability. _The Switchfinder Army_ had a high rating and several very confusing reviews. 

“We’ll see. He’s slated to arrive pretty soon. What, um, what about you?” Crowley had no idea what a ghost did all day.

“I’m thinking of revisiting the Brontes today.”

“That’s your collection in the front room, then?”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ve managed to do a fair amount of collecting over the years, yes.” His eyes crinkled at the edges with pride and he rubbed his hands together. “Shall I show you?”

“I’m not much of a reader, but-” A loud knocking on the front door made them both jump in surprise. Crowley let out a breath and forced his shoulders to relax. “Maybe later, eh, angel?”

Crowley peered through the peephole in the front door. The pile of rags man from the bar the first night he’d spent on the island stood on his doorstep, tapping his foot impatiently. Crowley opened the door and the man immediately barked, “How many boxes you got?”

“Er,” said Crowley.

“Never mind, laddie, just get out the way and we’ll find ‘em.” The man barged past him and set down a massive toolbox in the hall. He looked exactly the same as he had in the bar the other night. Like the ratty clothes he wore had come to life and given him his personality instead of the other way round.

“Umm,” said Crowley.

“Never mind him, love. Mister Shadwell’ll get you all sorted.” Tracy swept in behind the man, apparently called Shadwell, like a fresh breeze clearing out a bad smell. “Good to see you again, dear.”

“I- okay,” said Crowley. Tracy took a seat on one of his sitting room sofas and looked at him expectantly. “Tea?”

“Love some,” she said, crinkling her eyes in a friendly way that smudged her mascara a tiny bit.

Crowley, feeling stupid for no reason he could identify, made her a cup of tea. Aziraphale was still sitting at the table, reading a newspaper he’d gotten from somewhere and making terribly cute tutting noises. Crowley cleared his throat.

“Yes, dear?”

“You’re- look, I don’t want to sound rude, but-” Aziraphale set his paper aside and folded his hands. He looked amused. “I just- these people are here, and I can’t- look I can’t explain you to-”

Aziraphale waved him off. “It’s quite alright, Crowley. I’ll make myself scarce.”

“Thank you.” Crowley put the tea he’d made Tracy on a tray. Before he left the kitchen, Aziraphale placed a note on it.

“Do be a dear and go to the shop at some point today, would you? Thanks ever so much.” Aziraphale vanished. 

Crowley sighed and brought out the tea.

“So I said to Ms. Petley, you can take your ectoplasm and stuff it!”

Crowley threw his head back and genuinely laughed. He’d served Madame Tracy three cups of tea while she peppered him with tales of seances (and massages) gone sideways. She was wearing a blue house-dress with intricate embroidery under a bright green coat. He couldn’t put a finger on either Tracy or Shadwell’s ages, both of them seemed to be both older and younger than they appeared.

Tracy put down her tea and gave him a knowing look. He had no idea what it was she knew. She said, “Mr. Crowley, why don’t you go for a walk? Mr. S will be another hour or so and I can catch up with my old friend-” 

She paused and looked over his shoulder, before glancing back and clearing her throat. 

“My Old Friend. It’s a book I’m reading. I brought it with.” Tracy stood and handed him the grocery list that had been sitting on the tea tray while they talked. She took him by the elbow and practically pushed him out the door. “We can handle things here for an hour or so and it’ll do you good to get some fresh air. There’s a love.”

“I- but,” he stammered. Crowley found himself at the doorway while Tracy was shutting it gently in his face. Behind her, Aziraphale, looking smug, waved.

“Well that was a thing,” he said. He’d been kicked out of his house by a ghost, an aging spirit medium and an incomprehensible handyman. From inside, he heard a crash and a series of creative curses from Shadwell in a language he wasn’t sure was English. Right. Perhaps a walk to the shop wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

He looked down at the list Aziraphale had given him. At the top: oysters.

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley muttered.

* * *

Crowley returned from Mr. Young's laden with bags. He struggled to open the front door and cross the parlor without dropping anything. His heart was pounding. The image of bloody melon innards splattered on the tile appeared in his vision and he couldn’t get the sense of deja vu to leave him be.

“Ah, there he is!” Madame Tracy was seated at the kitchen table. It was set for two. “Let me help you dear.”

He transferred two bags to Tracy, who set them down gently on the counter. She immediately started putting items away.

“Please don’t- you don’t have to-”

“Of course I do, love. Now, Mr. Shadwell finished his inspection and I’ve already sent you an email with the estimate and timing. We’ll need a full day or two but probably no more than that. He also removed a few fixtures that would’ve burned the whole house down if you’d plugged in your phone and left it too long.” She folded the now-empty paper grocery bag and started on the next one. “No charge on that. Can’t have us burning down this lovely old house, now can we?”

Crowley paused, feeling completely helpless and overwhelmed in the kitchen of this house that didn’t feel like his. “You don’t need to help me. Why are you helping me?”

Her dangly green earrings lightly brushed one shoulder as she cocked her head to the side. She pursed her lips. The teacup she’d put in the sink now had a bright pink lipstick stain on it. “Because you need it, dear,” she said gently.

He couldn’t reply. It was too much. All the words stuck in his throat before he could get them out. He wanted to yell at her and make her leave. He wanted to hug her. Crowley felt too large for his body and he wanted to scream but wasn’t sure why.

“Are ye ready, woman?” Shadwell shouted, barging into the kitchen with absolutely no grace.

“Just a tick, Mr. S.” Tracy turned to Crowley. She retrieved an iPad from her purse and showed him the screen. On it were a bunch of line items for services he didn’t read and numbers with American dollar signs after them. On the bottom was a place for him to sign. The subtotal for today was zero. “Here you are, love, just sign with yer finger and we’ll be on our way. Send me a text or email and we’ll get you scheduled.”

Crowley signed and escorted Tracy and Shadwell to the door.

“Have a lovely evening, both of you!” Tracy said, blowing a kiss over her shoulder as she left.

“What-” Crowley turned. Behind him, visible and waving, was Aziraphale.

“You- you knew?” he shouted to Tracy’s back. “You knew!” She was halfway down the walk and either didn’t hear or pretended not to.

“Oh! You got all the things I asked for, how lovely,” Aziraphale said, literally floating to the kitchen. He’d forgotten to manifest his legs.

“I- I ought to- you-” 

Aziraphale ignored him completely. 

Oysters, as it turned out, were slimy and weird. They tasted like the sea in a way Crowley wasn’t eager to experience again. Aziraphale watched him eat with an intensity that would’ve been scary if he’d been any other ghost besides Aziraphale. He set his elbows on the table and leaned forward, as close as he could get without sitting in Crowley’s lap. The thought of that made Crowley squirm.

Aziraphale asked him probing questions about every aspect of the dish he’d prepared and Crowley struggled to answer. His job relied on a keen grasp of words and their impact but when Aziraphale stared at him with that hopeful, expecting, piercing look, they failed him entirely.

When he’d finished as much as he was able to eat, Crowley said, “You’re a pretty helpful ghost, Aziraphale. Can I keep you around? My stomach would like to, that’s for sure.”

Aziraphale’s blush was so intense it was visible despite the hazy edges of the rest of him.

Crowley did the dishes. While he washed, Aziraphale chatted about nothing in particular. Crowley felt a warm glow taking over the creaky, ancient kitchen. He put on rubber gloves, which earned him a side eye from Aziraphale that caused a blush to rise on his own cheeks. He swallowed and turned back to the sink. 

It felt like there was a bubble forming around this place. Protecting it — protecting _him_ — from time and pain and moving on. Crowley felt like if he stayed here, washing up after a meal Aziraphale had cooked just for him, the gnawing emptiness in his heart could be set aside. Not filled, not yet. But. The sounds of chatter and life in an old house pushed away the crushing silence that threatened to flatten him, even if just for a moment. 

Crowley breathed out, feeling the _too much_ -ness of it all. His heart started beating fast and he had to run. He needed to run, to drive, to- he needed _out_.

The kitchen door slammed.

“ _This is not your life_ ,” he hissed at a shrub he couldn’t identify. It was almost dark. The bloody sun sent piercing beams into his face when he turned. “You don’t _need_ this,” he told a puny apple tree. It was still nothing more than a skinny collection of knobby branches that didn’t respond to his jeering.

“This is not- you don’t deserve this.” All around him, the silent garden seethed. He shrugged, defeated. “I know I don’t. I _know_.”

“What are you doing out here, Crowley?” Aziraphale strode through the closed screen door separating the kitchen from the back porch. He was wearing a shawl over his shirt and waistcoat instead of his usual coat. He wrapped it around himself tightly, clinging to the edges of garment he’d somehow conjured.

“Just, uh, well,” Crowley stammered. Out here, the garden at the back of Abaddon Cottage felt and smelled wild. The energy of the earth felt strong out here and all Crowley could do was try to channel it. Or absorb it? He wasn't sure. He faced Aziraphale and said, “I’m talking to the garden.”

“I see.”

Crowley sat on the wooden patio stairs and stared out at the darkening sky. The garden was already black. Stars were coming out to meet and watch over it.

“It’s a- it’s a thing,” Crowley said. “It’s just a- nevermind.”

Aziraphale sat on the stairs next to Crowley. Up close, Crowley could see his face clearly even in the dim light of the twilit evening. He seemed to glow faintly from within. An evanescence Crowley couldn’t stop marvelling at. Again, Crowley was struck by how beautiful Aziraphale was.

“You’ve piqued my curiosity, darling, but if you don’t want to share, I won’t press.”

Darling. 

Crowley felt the word drop through his chest like a stone down a well. It clanged against the sides of his ribs as it fell through him. He knew it was nothing but a figure of speech. Azirpahale spoke like a character from an old novel — one Crowley had never bothered to read, having spent enough time on the moorlands where those stories were usually set to know how boring they were. 

It didn’t mean anything. 

And yet, Aziraphale smiled at him and that effervescent glow seemed to extend out from him to envelop Crowley as well.

Crowley cleared his throat and looked away. “I read about it in the late 80s. If you think I’m cool now, you should’ve seen me then. The hair care products alone used to cost me a fortune.” He smiled but didn’t risk a glance to his side.

“I can only imagine,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Went through the mullet phase, then the mohawk. At one point had a great big mustache. It was glorious — think ginger Freddie Mercury with no talent and half the charisma.”

Aziraphale coughed politely. 

“Right. So, the plant thing. Yeah. There was this fad. This thing where to get plants to grow, you talked to them. Hokey, right? But I gave it a try and it just- it stuck, I guess. You burden them with your problems and they grow anyway. So maybe you can grow, too.”

He glanced over to see Aziraphale smiling back at him. 

“And you know, it works wonders with houseplants. Especially peace lilies. Right cheeky bastards they are. Gotta keep ‘em in line.”

“Well my dear, if you think it helps, I suppose I’ll have to trust your judgment on the matter.” Aziraphale put on a prim face that said exactly what he was thinking but was too polite to say out loud. Crowley threw back his head and laughed. It escaped from his gut outwards and when Aziraphale giggled along with him, it felt like a release. Something that broke free and was now floating inside, making him giddy.

“Agnes wasn’t much of a gardener, then, I take it?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, his smile still lingering. “She grew herbs and the ingredients she needed for potions, but left the rest alone.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to circle back to the potions thing.”

Aziraphale heaved a put-upon sigh and said, “I have no doubt. Though I’d much rather not think of them again. Stinkweed is ever so stinky.”

Crowley laughed again and that feeling of something floating free in his chest returned. He took a deep breath. The salt of the sea and the sharp smell of Aziraphale’s presence mingled with the green of the garden. It calmed him.

“You don’t strike me as the green thumb sort, either, angel,” he said. It was meant as a tease but instead of reciprocating, Aziraphale stilled. He looked out at the black shapes of the trees and shrubs lurking at the edge of the light from the kitchen window. Their shadows played games with the mind, becoming monsters ready to strike. Or dance.

“No. You’ll have to tend to the gardens yourself, Crowley. I won’t be able to help you.” The way he said this was delicate, like there was so much more he could have said but had chosen not to.

Oh.

_When I touch living beings it's like water running through my hands._

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Angel, I-” he stopped when he realized he wasn’t sure what to say. Crowley felt so many things when he roared among the leaves. But he had the power to help them live or let them die. Aziraphale could only watch. He'd thought of Aziraphale's smile as a lighthouse beacon but he hadn't considered the toll it would take. How hard it would be to keep smiling while looking out on savage waters, never able to bring anyone to shore.

Aziraphale gave him a small, pained smile, then looked out the darkness. A few late cicadas trilled, but otherwise, the night was silent.

Crowley was desperate to break the silence. 

“Did you always live here? When you were- before your current-”

“While I was alive, you mean?”

Crowley nodded. The humidity of the quiet night enveloped them in a silky embrace.

“I believe so, yes.”

“You don't remember?”

“I do, but it's-” Aziraphale didn’t look at him. “It's far away. I remember things about this place. The island. Memories I believe are mine.”

Crowley didn’t speak. He watched Aziraphale thinking. His face went through a complicated series of emotions, then settled on an expression of sad reserve.

“It's as if I'm standing in the middle of a bridge and from one side, threads of memory float past me. Remnants from a life I believe was mine. But they're far away and I can’t- I can’t go back there, Crowley.”

“What’s on the other side of the bridge, angel?”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley. His eyes were sad but he smiled nonetheless. Crowley was starting to notice how often he hid behind the sparkle of a smile that didn’t reach the rest of his face. “Just darkness.”

“You don't have to- I'm sorry I-”

“Don't be sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale reached out a hand and placed it carefully on top of his. He held it just above Crowley’s skin, not passing through and not touching. The electric hum of the nerves on the top of his fingers sent a shiver up his arm.

Aziraphale shook himself. He moved his hand away and Crowley missed it immediately. “My goodness, you’ve got me speaking in an overwrought metaphor. _Imagine_! A ghost talking about standing on a bridge — how positively derivative.”

Crowley snorted. “‘S not derivative, angel. Just a metaphor.”

“Yes but it’s a little on the nose, don’t you think? The television series practically writes itself.”

Crowley chuckled and it seemed to egg Aziraphale on.

“I can see it now — an American television preacher speaking about crossing over as if he knows anything.” He put on an atrocious American accent. “Jesus is my buddy and we’ll walk across the bridge together.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and it was the most adorable thing Crowley had ever seen in his entire life, which had been often spent avoiding adorable things.

Crowley affected the same cowboy accent and said, “Order my album for just sixty payments of nine-ninety-five and _you too_ can help your ghost buddy cross the bridge into the great beyond!”

This sent Aziraphale into a fit of giggles that made him rock back and forth on the steps. He lost the hold he had on his mostly-corporeal self and sank partially through the surface of the deck when he rocked backward.

When their laughter stopped, a comfortable silence fell. Crowley felt, of all things, at peace. He watched the shadows of the garden settle. His tailbone ached from sitting so long on the hard wooden planks of the deck, but he looked to his right at Aziraphale and he knew he wouldn’t move until the moment broke naturally.

Crowley watched the features on Aziraphale’s face slowly set. He was getting a feeling for how Aziraphale tried to hide his expressions. He’d had two hundred years to practice schooling his features. Crowley wondered how often he’d had to make himself disappear. How often had the occupants of this house been unwelcoming? Or afraid of him like Crowley had been at first? Aziraphale tried so hard to keep his face neutral but every single time he did, something gave him away. Whether it was a nervous fluttering of his hands or his twinkling eyes, Aziraphale had a hard time hiding — a strange deficit for a very old ghost.

“That’s not how I see you anyway, angel,” Crowley said at last. “Not the right metaphor.” Surprise flitted across Aziraphale’s face before he caught it and stowed it away.

“What- how _do_ you see me?” Aziraphale asked. His face was hesitant, hopeful.

For the first time since he’d stepped foot on Mackinac Island, Crowley grinned. He showed the full force of his crooked toothy smile to Aziraphale and said, “An angel. ‘Course. I see you as an angel, looking over a garden.”

Aziraphale’s smile could’ve lit the entire island. He giggled, then looked smug. “As I recall my Book of Genesis, the angel who guarded the garden of Eden didn’t do a particularly good job.”

“Ehhhh, maybe,” Crowley said, elongating every syllable he could. “‘Least you’re not the snake, though.” His cheeks ached from holding the smile.

“Some might say the serpent was rather unfairly maligned.” Aziraphale drew himself up, straightening his back. He wiggled his shoulders a little and Crowley wondered what else he could do to get him to wiggle his shoulders like that.

“Tell me,” Crowley said, putting his chin in his hand. He arched forward, drawing toward the partially-translucent figure of the silly man on his porch.

Aziraphale told him. He listened as Aziraphale wound himself up. Crowley played devil’s advocate — prosecution, actually. Then they switched and he played devil’s advocate until the chill forced him back inside. They kept volleying, leaning towards one another and smiling at the dining table while Aziraphale’s edges ebbed and flowed until long after midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--  
> 1) Miss Petley and her ectoplasm appear in the book but not in the show.  
> 2) Jesus is my buddy and the terrible American preacher alas also didn't make it in the show.


	4. The sleep fled from my eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) We’re back to some spookies here, folks. There’s one scene, in particular, that is definitely creepy and it involves Aziraphale. I'd say it’s on par with a horror movie visually but with no blood or gore. It's about 3/4 of the way down, starting with "Darkness fell but Crowley didn’t go back..."  
> 2) This chapter also starts to earn an E rating for sex. Of note, this is one of those things that I’ve described in a sexy way for fanfiction, but similar behaviors in real life by people instead of ghosts would not be okay. I've added a few tags to clarify this chapter and what I have (vaguely) planned. 
> 
> If you have any questions at all about the content, existing or future, drop me a line on tumblr or discord. My usernames are all the same across platforms so I should be pretty easy to find. I'll be happy to answer if I can!
> 
> If you're coming to this having read something recently that's funny or fluffy of mine, please note this story is not like the others. <3 There are no dog parks here.

Crowley woke gradually, drifting into consciousness like rising to the surface of a warm pool. He was hard.

It was only his third morning waking in Abaddon Cottage. The terror of the first night and the confusion of the second had kept him in a state of taut readiness. His body had been coiled, poised to fight or flee. Now that his anxiety had been reduced to a simmer from a constant rolling boil, other feelings rose to the surface. The adrenaline rush of fright morphed into a different kind of arousal. 

Sunlight wasn’t yet peeking in through the window but the dawn was making itself known by a kaleidoscope of colors reflected on the walls. Crowley didn’t open his eyes but he could sense the coming morning. He stayed in almost-dreams, not quite ready to face the light.

The sheets he’d found on the bed were old and scratchy but the texture played against his skin, making him feel everywhere it touched his body. Awareness oozed slowly from his head down his torso into his fingers and down to his toes. He curled them, feeling the mattress underneath shift as he stretched out. 

And he was, still, hard. 

It was probably around five a.m. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten off. Before he’d arrived here, obviously. In London, surrounded by snooty houseplants and stark white furniture. Maybe with...but no, he’d left and Crowley had pulled himself off afterward, mumbling about how it was better alone anyway. It had been.

Crowley sucked in a deep breath. The pressure was starting to build and he inched his hands closer to his groin as he breathed in—old house and old, starchy sheets. The scent didn’t exactly inspire. He opened his eyes.

Michigan, right. Abaddon Cottage.

Shit, _Aziraphale_.

The house he hadn’t wanted was also haunted. By an infuriating, enticing, and utterly fascinating ghost. He could be here, in the walls somehow. He could be watching. Would he?

Crowley was, still, so hard.

He took a deep breath in. All he smelled was morning and mothballs. He pictured Aziraphale. He didn’t mean to but those deep blue eyes swam around the back of his eyelids anyway. Waiting for Crowley to utter a rude word so he could chastise. Always ready with a quip. The angel who’d teased him immediately after saving his life. Fuck. His hand inched closer to his thigh. He was so hard. He could just— 

Crowley threw back the sheets. Time to start the day.

* * *

The coffeemaker was already burbling by the time he made an appearance in the kitchen. Aziraphale was seated, reading the papers and inhaling the steam from a cup of tea. His hands were the most visible part of him as they curled around the warmth of the mug. Crowley wondered if he could feel it, deep in his insubstantial bones somewhere. Or was it just a ritual? A remnant of life that Aziraphale couldn’t let go of, some two hundred years after it (and him) ceased to hold substance.

He was wearing house slippers that looked like little clouds on his feet. Crowley stared.

“Good morning, dear!” Aziraphale said, solidifying himself the rest of the way. “I do hope I didn’t keep you up too late last night. All that… _talking_.” His smile was a Cheshire-cat grin that Crowley wasn’t sure how to interpret. Aziraphale’s moods seemed to flip on a dime. He was a thoughtful not-quite-presence one minute, a trickster spirit the next.

“Nah. Nyeh. Nope,” said Crowley. He passed a hand over his face and tried to focus on something other than Aziraphale’s cloud feet. “Used to late nights, me.”

The twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes somehow grew even more twinkly. “Is that so,” he murmured.

Crowley let that go. He drank coffee and reluctantly read the front page of the _Mackinac Island Town Crier_ when Aziraphale handed it to him. He felt a strange deja vu for the rituals of a morning he’d never had: drinking coffee, trading pieces of the paper, sneaking smiles across the table. But he’d never experienced anything like it in his life. And his breakfast-mate was a ghost.

He cleared his throat. “Going to head into town today. Haircut. Maybe do some sight-seeing. Eventually, the internet’ll be in and my excuses for not working will vanish.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful, my dear. You should visit the lighthouse if it’s open. The view is spectacular. And there’s a spot you should see at sunset. The light is- oh Crowley, it’s so beautiful, I-”

Aziraphale’s rush of words stopped abruptly. He turned back to his mug of now-tepid tea, staring forlornly into its depths.

“Can you leave the house, angel?” Crowley asked softly.

“No, my dear. I may have been able to once, but that was a long time ago,” Aziraphale replied with an insincere smile. The sight of it filled Crowley with sadness. “But you simply _must_ see the rest of the island, my dear. I shan’t keep you cooped up here. There’s much more to see than an aging house and its decidedly un-aging occupant.”

Aziraphale smiled again and though it didn’t reach his eyes, Crowley could tell the conversation was over. Aziraphale was able to literally disappear but he didn’t need to—he vanished via a curve to his lips. The smile on his face was so bland it made all the fascinating things about him, all the aspects of Aziraphale that made him unique—the enthusiasm and fluttering hands and lilting, teasing voice—fade away.

* * *

“Hello? This is _A Snip at the Price_ , yeah?”

The little house tucked in behind two rustic Victorian-era cottages looked like every other summer house on the island but it had a wooden sign over the door with scissors painted on it. There wasn’t a doorbell, so Crowley knocked on the bent metal frame of the screen door.

From inside, a voice called, “In here! Come on in!”

“I’m your, uh, 10:30, according to the app? Anthony Crowley?” Crowley held up his phone with the appointment pulled up but the woman just squinted at him through the screen. She waved him in. 

Crowley entered the parlor of a cozy house. From somewhere within, he heard the indistinct chatter of a group of teens. The front room had been converted into a makeshift barbershop with a high chair and large mirror dominating the close space. Hairdresser’s tools sat in homemade jars with cutesy slogans and children’s drawings adorning the labels. The house was the sort of messy that implied a busy life with children and possibly a dog or two. Not dirty or cluttered, just lived-in. Crowley felt like an explorer stepping into the life of an unknown culture.

“Now, sit yourself down, won’t you? I’m Rebecca, nice to meet ya,” the woman said. She was young but not too young, with a friendly sort of face that Crowley doubted he would remember later. She circled him, evaluating his messy red hair with a critical but not unkind eye. When she spotted the bandage above his ear, she said, “What happened here?”

_I almost died but an angel saved my life and now he’s living with me, or me with him, and oh also he’s a ghost and possibly the most captivating person I’ve ever met._

Nope. Crowley cleared his throat. “Light in the hallway was out. I, uh, had a fall. It’s not a big-”

Rebecca tsked lightly. “Why don’t you get the doc to look it over?”

“Umm, no offense but the American health system scares me more than a bump on the head, so-”

She chuckled, then said, “I can’t blame ya there. Hang on a sec.” She yelled up the stairs, “Sam! Can you come down here, please?”

“I’m fine- I don’t need-”

“Don’tcha worry about it, will only take a sec. Do you mind if I remove this?” He nodded and she gently removed the bandage over his ear. A few moments later, another woman skipped down the stairs carrying a black bag. She had long dark hair that seemed to float around her head in a sort of uncontrollable cloud. Rebecca pointed to Crowley’s head, awkwardly trimmed on one side and slightly swollen. “Newcomer. He’s had a fall, mind having a look?”

“You really don’t have to-”

But the cloud-haired woman was already turning his head gently. He closed his eyes and let her, feeling a hot lick of shame rising to his hairline.

“Doesn’t look too deep and you cleaned it fairly well,” she said. “But let’s go over it again, shall we?”

Crowley swallowed. Apparently no one on this island took no for an answer. “You’re a doctor?”

She murmured in assent, then reached into her bag to retrieve supplies that looked far newer and cleaner than the ones Aziraphale had used. “Mmhmm, the one and only. Sorry, this might sting,” she said, dabbing his head with antiseptic. “I’m Dr. Johnson, Rebecca’s my wife. You’re Mr. Crawley then? Over at Abaddon?”

“Crowley,” he said.

“Well, Mr. Crowley, your head could actually use a stitch. Won’t take but a sec and it’ll dissolve in a week or two so you needn’t come back.”

“I don’t- I mean, I’m just here for-”

Dr. Johnson waved her hand and gave him a stern look. “No charge. Give me a moment and then I’ll let you get back to your ‘do.”

Crowley closed his eyes while Dr. Johnson worked on his head. He felt a brief pinch as she set the stitch, then heard her opening a new bandage. She gently placed the bandage, then stepped back. 

The whole process took roughly five minutes but he felt indebted to these women in a way that made him flush with shame. He hadn’t asked for their help and he hadn’t needed it but they’d given it anyway. It made his skin crawl. He wanted to smash his hand into the mirror and throw the homemade jars of scissors into the wall. 

Crowley took a deep breath in.

“Thanks, love,” Rebecca said. 

“No problem. Call me if that gets red or more painful. It might itch but if it starts oozing, get your butt back in that seat, you hear?” He nodded. Dr. Johnson packed up her bag of supplies, then pressed a kiss to her wife’s cheek. 

As she left, she addressed the group of teenagers in the adjoining room. “Hey gang, you’ve got ten more minutes of video games, then it’s time to set the table for lunch, yeah?” They collectively groaned and continued playing.

“Teenagers, all they want to do is play games,” Rebecca said with a sigh. 

Crowley smiled politely. He couldn’t make heads or tails of the games the kids were playing but they did seem glued to the console. On the screen, brightly-colored tropical fish swam about in a collection of tanks that the kids presumably controlled, with gauges and dials on each one.

“Honestly, the kid lives half a mile from Lake Huron and all he wants to do is stare at fish on a screen. I don’t get it.” From the other room, cheers erupted and the largest kid pumped his fists in the air, triumphant. The other tanks on the screen had cracked open while his remained intact. His biggest fish was preening.

“So what’re you going to do with it?” Rebecca asked.

 _Sell it._ That was obviously the answer. He’d come all this way to evaluate and fix up the property, consult with a local real estate agent, and settle on a price. Abaddon Cottage and the land it sat on was his to cash out so he could move on with his life—if he got enough for it, he could keep living in London for a few years. Or he could quit his job. He could move to the country and find a place—a proper cottage, dammit, _fine_ —and tend a garden, alone by the sea. In England, though, _not_ Michigan. Or Scotland. Wales if he got desperate or the real estate market sucked. 

So why couldn’t he force the words out of his throat?

“Nyeh, well, it needs some work, obviously. Figured I’d do what I can to get it ready and see what the market is like-”

Rebecca put a hand on his shoulder gently. “I meant your hair.”

“Oh- yeah, right.”

She smiled. “But I’d be lying if I said the year-rounders weren’t dying to know your plans for the cottage, too”

He ducked his head, trying to recover an ounce of dignity and failing miserably. “I don’t know,” he said. “Never been big on plans.”

“Understandable. Sort of need one for the hair, though.”

He looked in the mirror and saw a man he barely recognized staring back. Someone who’d been hurt once, then several times more. A long-haired fool who’d been running from the hurt ever since. The lines on his face hadn’t been put there by smiles. 

He told Rebecca to cut it all off and she set to it with a nod and a professional silence he was profoundly grateful for.

She turned his head this way and that, moving his chin gently but firmly. He felt himself relax as pieces of his hair fell away. Rebecca took her cues from him, gradually returning to a conversation that didn’t go near any exposed nerves. He told her his plans for the day and that he was milking the lack of wifi for all it was worth.

“Careful you don’t spend too long at the fort. They’ll recruit you for your accent,” she said.

“Wot?”

“Exactly. Say that too many times and you’ll be cast as a traitorous British soldier. They’ll have scout troops here for the summer pretend to execute you in the square.”

His eyebrows raised but he tried to keep his head still.

“You haven’t been up there yet, I’m guessing.”

“Nah. Kids cosplaying as soldiers as a summer job handing out pamphlets to tourists?”

“Yep.”

“Ain’t that about as American as apple pie.”

She shrugged. “You asked. But yeah, this place was a British fort before the American Revolution. Then I think y’all came and tried to claim it in 1812. Obviously, the Native Americans were here way before any of us, though.”

“American as apple pie,” he repeated.

“You got it.”

She worked silently for a few moments and he drifted, feeling the odd sensation of a person flitting about behind him, touching his head. A person who was solid. Who smelled like the light perfume of a hairdresser in her thirties comfortable in the skin she wore instead of an ephemeral man who reeked of the sharp air coming off the lakes.

“Wait - you said British fort. There were British soldiers here?” he asked. He tried not to bolt upright with the realization, lest his hair suffer even more. 

Aziraphale—was it possible he’d been a soldier? The silly ghost who read books all day and wore comfy cloud slippers… is that who he’d been while he was alive? Crowley hadn’t questioned his posh vocabulary or Received Pronunciation. But, in hindsight, of course, he should have. Why hadn’t he realized how ridiculous it was to have an _English_ ghost in his house in Michigan?

“Yeah. Look down, please.” She tipped his head down and shaved the back of it. He listened to the little buzzing of the clippers and tried to calm his racing thoughts. 

There was absolutely no reason for him to try and find out who Aziraphale was. He could ask. Or not! He didn’t need to know. He didn’t have to ask questions. (He always asked questions.) Aziraphale was a fact of life at Abaddon Cottage but Abaddon Cottage wasn’t a permanent fact of his life. It was— 

Crowley’s thoughts stalled. He wanted to know.

Rebecca took his money and gave him a decent haircut. Short, shaved on the sides with a wave on top. It made him look at least five years younger. Okay, maybe she was just looking for a good tip when she said that but he didn’t disagree. He tipped her handsomely, which took forever to calculate after considering the exchange rate and a quick Google search for “what’s the appropriate amount to tip a hairdresser in America?” 

Crowley considered his non-bandaged side in his phone’s rear-facing camera. What would Aziraphale think? Crowley didn’t recognize this version of himself either but he gave himself a wink and fucked off to face the rest of the day alone. He’d taken up enough of Rebecca Johnson’s time.

* * *

He kept his mind blank as he wandered the island. The fort was brimming with tourists and although the view was spectacular, he couldn’t bring himself to pay admission to an old castle built by people who claimed this island for their own by virtue of squatting on it and kicking everyone else out. Crowley wandered. He ate lunch by the docks and dinner by the famous gazebo.

Crowley tried not to think of Dr. Johnson casually kissing her wife on the cheek, like it was the easiest thing in the world. He tried not to think of the dead man waiting for him to return to an otherwise empty house.

Darkness fell but Crowley didn’t go back to Abaddon Cottage. He walked along the island’s perimeter path, with no particular destination in mind. The pavement curved, hugging the limestone rock formations closely. Every now and then, a cyclist whooshed by. As the pink dusk became twilight, then dark, cyclists stopped coming. On the other side of the path, the still lake waters were pitch black. The edge of the path could've been a cliff dropping into an endless void.

Around the bend, a small pocket of rocky beach formed. Inky water crept up to meet shiny dark stones that glistened with slick foam. A thin line of vegetation was all that separated the path where he walked from the small beach made of slippery stones.

A feeling of dread came over him but he wasn’t sure why. He tried to follow the rocky shore with his eyes but it was so dark that all he could make out was the reflective stripe in the middle of the path. Crowley jammed his hands in his pockets and kept walking. The silence of the island was broken only by the whisper of water lapping at those rocks, endlessly grabbing at the surface of them like hands seeking something to hold onto.

Crowley walked, feeling strange and sorry for himself. He kept walking and almost didn’t recognize Aziraphale standing on the rocks.

“Azira-”

Aziraphale turned to face him slowly. His feet were white and bare on the jagged stones and Crowley thought briefly about clouds but wasn’t sure why. Aziraphale’s body was solid but he shone brightly from within, like a halo of light covering his entire body instead of lingering over his head. As he turned to face Crowley, his body and shoulders moved separately—like they'd been disconnected at the neck but not severed. 

Crowley quickened his pace.

There was something wrong with Aziraphale's eyes. They were too wide and too white.

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley reached out instinctively, trying not to trip over his own suddenly-too-big feet.

Aziraphale’s ghostly body was still but he raised an arm stiffly, struggling under the weight of it. He was dripping wet. Water streamed down his face from drooping tendrils of hair. Instead of its usual white-blond, it was a dark mottled gray in the strange light. A gash of moonlight ripped through dark clouds and threw strange shadows on his ghastly, beautiful, face.

“Angel, I'm-” he wasn't sure what the end of that sentence would be.

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to reply, but when his lips parted a dark gush of black water streamed down his chin. His eyes were wide in horror as inky liquid and seaweed spilled from the gaping maw of his mouth.

Crowley broke into a run.

His footsteps slapped loudly against the pavement. When he reached the rocks, Aziraphale was gone.

Crowley was alone.

When he found a thatch of dense trees on the way back to the main part of the island, Crowley screamed into them until his heart stuttered back into its usual rhythm.

* * *

Abaddon Cottage was dark.

“Aziraphale?”

Nothing.

Only silence and the creaking of a front door he’d need to grease. What did you use to grease a front door? WD-40? Was that a thing? Where would you even get something like that? Crowley had no idea where to put grease on this ancient fucking door to get it to stop groaning like the gate to hell. 

He stepped into the hall, not carrying anything but conscious of his hands, like a sense memory of everything he’d dropped onto this very floor. His body remembered falling.

“Angel? Are you here?”

Silence.

Crowley sniffed the air, searching for a hint of Aziraphale’s presence: freshly-brewed tea; cocoa made way too thick, all the better for smelling and not drinking; the ammonia that always brought him to attention like smelling salts for a fainting maiden.

—nothing.

He told himself he wasn’t disappointed. 

He also told himself he wasn’t scared.

Crowley searched the house. The mugs in the sink were the same ones they’d used this morning. One with his coffee stains, one with remnants of Aziraphale’s unconsumed tea. He went out to the porch and peered into the garden, softly calling “angel?” and feeling like an idiot. The bushes didn’t reply.

It felt wrong to break the silence, so he didn’t.

With no sign of Aziraphale in the house and a growing sense of panic, Crowley found himself in bed, staring at the ceiling.

_WhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckfuckfuckfuckwhatthefuckwheredidhegowhatthefuckwhatfuckfuckfuckangelfuckwhatthefuckdammitfuckangelneedwhatthefuckwherehowcanIwhatthefuckangelfuckneedtofuckangeldammitnotnowfuck—_

His back was arched, heels dug into the mattress, and halfway to orgasm when he smelled it. Crowley was nude under the scratchy sheets he hadn’t replaced. They weren’t sandpaper-rough but every time he moved he felt them against his skin and it drove him just a little more mad. He’d peeled off his clothes and sunk down into them, seeking relief. He was almost there. _Almost_. Crowley took a deep breath in, preparing to let himself go— 

Water.

The heavy smell of the lakes.

An acidic tang that never appeared outside these walls.

 _Aziraphale_.

Crowley grit his teeth. He didn’t let go or slow down. He kept up the same desperate rhythm with his hand while the other gripped his thigh. The tension in his body was building and he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He was leaking, smearing salty liquid into the lube on his hand as he stroked himself. 

He took in another breath and inhaled the scent of the room, the sea, the night air. It all entered him as he arched his back, grinding his hips down and thrusting up into his fist. A sliver of moonlight split the room in two, separating darkness from light like the edge of a knife. 

Crowley was alone.

(No bow tie— 

No _darling_ — 

No gorgeous eyes looking up from under long lashes and no teasing, pouting lips— 

No _angel_.)

The room was empty. 

But he _wasn't_ alone.

That heavy smell of water and ozone and ammonia filled his senses. He was a bow, strung too tight. The air in the room charged—the buildup before a storm and all he wanted to do was _come_. He was thunder, poised to crash over a turbulent sea. Raging winds beating futile against ancient rocks. A wave climbing higher, ever higher, and finally— _finally_ —but he couldn’t crest. Not yet.

“I know you’re there,” Crowley said, trying to keep the desperate whine out of his voice.

Silence.

His ragged breaths broke it. The slick slapping of his fist crashed into the silence of the room, tumbling into the vastness of a void he felt might devour him whole. He tightened his grip, chasing an end. Looking for love, for relief, for _home_.

“Angel—” 

He was so close.

He slid his fingers lightly over the slit, teasing. With his other hand, he gripped his thigh so hard it might bruise. He didn’t care. The lube he’d used was drying, cooling on his skin, and he let it. Feather light touches of his fingers on the tip of his cock wouldn’t bring him relief but kept him gasping, kept him riding the wave—

“Angel, please—”

Crowley found the crest. He clenched his fingers into a fist and slid it tight down his length, then back up and he was about to—

A light.

From the corner of the room, a softly glowing presence. The chair, an antique wooden thing, covered with a threadbare quilt full of homespun yarn and too many memories that weren’t his. 

On it, Aziraphale.

He was sitting. Prim. Still. His hands clenched on his thighs, knuckles white. His mouth was set in a line that held no hint of a curve. No smile to hide behind. His mouth was the horizon; it was a calm sea meeting steely sky.

Aziraphale’s eyes met his. They smouldered with an intensity Crowley had never seen before. The heavy humid atmosphere of the room was silent but for Crowley’s leaping heart and the slapping of flesh on flesh. Moonlight cut into the darkness and in the stark cold light, his eyes shone.

Crowley’s pulse thundered in his ears. He pressed his fingers into the flesh of his thigh and fucked into his fist. He sped up and his body was on fire and the sheets were grabbing at his skin like rough hands as he writhed but he couldn’t look away from those eyes— 

A blinding flash.

Crowley came. He crashed against the shore, helpless under the pressure of wave after wave after wave. His body— _finally_ —found release. Crowley came, gasping for breath, gagging on the smell of the sea.

* * *

He set out a cup of his strongest tea to brew and flipped the switch on the coffeemaker.

“Good morning angel,'' Crowley said, about five seconds before the ghost—his ghost—managed to make himself completely opaque.

“Good morning my-” Aziraphale started to say. Then, flustered, said, “How did you know I would appear?”

Crowley smirked. He circled around Aziraphale, making sure his shoulder brushed the not-quite-solid edge of Aziraphale’s as he carefully danced around his ghost. Aziraphale was still, hands clasped, an uncertain look on his face.

“I know what you smell like,” Crowley said, keeping his face neutral but for the slightest raise of his right eyebrow. The color that appeared high on Aziraphale's cheeks told him he knew _exactly_ what he meant.

“Tea?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead setting the mug at Aziraphale’s place at the table.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond but nothing came out. He stood, speechless for a long, charged moment, when— 

The doorbell croaked.

It sounded like a dying frog’s wail bouncing off the peeling wood of the front door. Was that on Shadwell’s list to fix? Somehow Crowley doubted it. Shadwell didn’t seem the sort to appreciate anything so refined as a doorbell. Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who looked back at him. 

A polite but firm knocking followed.

Crowley sighed, reluctantly breaking away from Aziraphale. He stalked through the foyer, grumbling, and answered the door. He opened it a fraction of the way and said, “Yeah?”

“Are you Mr. Crawly?”

“Crowley.”

The young woman adjusted her glasses. They were thick-rimmed and black, and not very fashionable. Nor was she. Her long, bushy skirts fell just above her ankles, exposing very sensible brown laced boots. The woman was young but her expression was that of someone who would not react well to hearing the phrase “but you’re so young!”

“Who are you, then?”

“Don’t be rude, Crowley!” Aziraphale had apparently gotten over his surprise long enough to resume doling out admonishments.

“My name is Anathema Device,” the young woman said, sticking out her hand. He shook it lightly, unsure why feeling the need to be polite to her. “I’m Agnes Nutter’s great-great-grand-niece, slightly removed. This cottage rightfully belongs to me.”

From the kitchen, Aziraphale called out, “Who’s that at the door, dear? Do I need to go off into the other plane for a bit?”

The woman scowled. She was carrying a trunk that looked like it contained at least a month’s worth of lacy, not-quite-fashionable shirts. She set it down on the doorstep with a loud thunk.

“Gosh,” said Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Seaweed - okay, so this takes place on the great lakes, which are by definition, not the sea. However, my understanding and memories from being there is that the word seaweed is used even if it’s not technically correct. It’s a handy word for the type of algae-covered plant one finds in bodies of water, even if said bodies of water aren’t technically the ocean.  
> 2) A Snip at the Price is a GO book reference. There are so many jokes in the footnotes, guys. I mean, I know you know, but damn. Sometimes I go back to reread a page of the book and somehow Neil and Terry packed like sixty jokes into one page.  
> 3) Greasy Johnson winning for his tropical fish is a GO book reference. To my knowledge, his parents aren’t really referenced? Maybe they are but I didn’t go back to check and instead I made up Dr. and Mrs. Johnson.  
> 4) Crowley’s eyes - in this fic he doesn’t cover them. He uses other means of distancing people and avoiding scrutiny but the literal covering of his eyes isn’t a thing here. It’s my AU so it’s my rules? Taking a page from the no gods no masters book of writing.


	5. Would you settle the score?

It became clear immediately that Anathema Device was not fucking around. 

By the time Crowley had shown her the ground floor and the first of the two rooms on the middle level, she already had the look of someone who knew much more than you about a subject you were trying to teach. She’d pulled a notebook out of somewhere and was scribbling notes as they wandered through the house. Crowley felt like a realtor showing a prospective buyer the property. But he wasn’t selling and she wasn’t buying. In fact, he didn’t want her in the house at all. He also didn’t care to examine why that might be.

Aziraphale had faded into nothingness with a regretful look on his face, one Crowley understood to mean he was sorry to leave Crowley to deal with the unexpected guest but not too sorry.

“It’s not awful,” she said of the rose-patterned wallpaper in the bedroom upstairs. He agreed but tried not to look too enthusiastic about it.

He declined to show her the bedroom and felt a flush rising at the thought of what he’d done in there last night. Anathema pursed her lips as they turned to leave and descended the stairs. She left her trunk in the rose room.

Crowley left her in the sitting room while he made tea. He paced the length of the kitchen while the kettle heated up, alternately wishing Aziraphale was there and thanking a God he didn’t believe in that he wasn’t. Aziraphale’s angel-wings mug was still sitting on the table, waiting for him to re-materialize and wrap his not-quite-solid hands around it.

Anathema had asked for cream and sugar. As she added them to her tea, Crowley sank down on the pink sofa opposite her and chewed the inside of his cheek. He shifted his elbow to try and cover up the bloodstain.

“And at what point were you going to mention the ghost?” she asked, pushing her glasses up on her nose. She said this as if she’d been asking about the weather or the current price of turnips. “I’m assuming he’s friendly? You don’t appear to be recently murdered or under any kind of duress.”

Crowley’s mouth opened, then closed. He opened it again but no words appeared. “Um-”

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, “I’m Aziraphale. And you are?”

“Fuck!” Crowley said, startled by how close Aziraphale was sitting. He received a stern and slightly amused, look from the ghost in response. “Sorry.”

“Anathema Device, very nice to meet you.” She hadn’t flinched and her voice was calm. A still, placid lake to his turbulent waves. Anathema looked closely at Aziraphale, wrinkling her face a little as she peered at him. She nodded, seemingly satisfied, before turning back to Crowley and scrutinizing him with the same level of intensity. She took a sip from her mug of milky tea.

The silence stretched. Then it stretched some more. Crowley itched to break it but couldn't think of a single appropriate thing to say.

Next to him, Aziraphale smiled. Crowley could feel a faint tingle where the outline of Aziraphale’s leg just barely overlapped with his own. Their thighs should be touching. He should feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s presence sitting next to him, lending him strength. Certainty. If Aziraphale were alive, Crowley could take his hand. The breath punched out of him at the thought of feeling Aziraphale’s fingers lace through his. If only—

“So,” Anathema said, “this explains some things.”

Crowley’s thoughts returned to the conversation slowly, like they were dragging themselves through a pit of tar towards an uncertain destination. “Things?”

“Yes. The members of my family have certain abilities. Some more than others, and not all of us choose to use them. Agnes cut herself off from the main branch of the family but we kept tabs on her via, shall we say, spiritual means.”

Crowley looked to Aziraphale but the expression on his face remained blank, a placid mirror reflecting pleasant nothingness and concealing his true thoughts.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “I didn’t know Agnes. I fell off whatever branch of the family tree she occupied a long time ago, so if you think-”

Anathema held up a hand. “The family figured you’d say that. There were premonitions about this place. Its significance was not well understood. I see now that this house must have some kind of spiritual power. For it to have summoned you back from the dead-”

“My dear girl, I believe there’s been a mistake.”

“This house must be important. And the Device family has dedicated themselves for generations to understanding the mysteries of the spiritual world. You must see that the mistake was Agnes leaving it to someone-”

“Someone like me?” Crowley asked, finally finding words. Self-deprecating words were always easy to find.

Anathema had the decency to look away. “I didn’t mean-”

“Look, like it or not, Agnes left this house to me. I had three different lawyers look over the paperwork because I was just as shocked as you were.” He felt Aziraphale shifting next to him by the way his skin tingled as it reacted to the boundaries of Aziraphale’s form. There was no weight to Aziraphale’s movements but he felt them all the same, like a cool breeze just barely brushing the sensitive hairs on his arm. “When I got here, I found Aziraphale. Legally, the house is mine, but he’s been here longer than any of us. Agnes, even. By all rights, the house is his more than anyone else’s.”

“Yes, but a house can’t belong to a ghost.”

“She’s right, Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“Okay, yeah, I didn’t think that through, exactly,” he replied, feeling like his point was escaping him and he wasn’t even sure what it was, exactly. “But where does that leave us?”

Another silence.

“Legally, the house belongs to you. But ethically, this place belongs to the Device family.” Anathema set down her teacup with an air of finality. This was a young woman very sure of what she wanted and that she would get it.

Crowley raised his hands. “Hey, it’s not like I’m saying I want this place or that I care, just-” 

Next to him, Aziraphale straightened. Crowley felt him shift, his shoulders becoming rigid, then he let out a slow, steady breath. Crowley didn’t dare look at his face. 

“-just that it’s, I don’t even know what it’s worth to sell it and, I’m not-”

Anathema’s face broke into an involuntary yawn. “I’m sorry, god, so sorry,” she said, covering her mouth. “I came in on the redeye to Detroit, and then it’s a long way here.”

“You must be exhausted, dear!” Aziraphale’s voice was full of exaggerated concern. “You must get some rest. Let me get you some water and show you upstairs.” Aziraphale vanished, not bothering to walk to the kitchen. A moment later, Crowley heard him retrieving a cup and turning on the faucet. 

“Thank you,” Anathema said when Aziraphale reappeared at her side with a cup. She didn’t seem phased by his not-quite-solid appearance in the slightest. “You’re too kind.”

Aziraphale smiled at her, then led her upstairs, presumably to the rose-patterned room she’d managed to claim as hers. Crowley unclenched his jaw, then escaped to the garden.

* * *

“Crowley? Are you here?”

“Here,” he said, raising his head above the hedge where he’d been crouched. Crowley shaded his eyes against the late morning sun and scanned the porch for ghosts. Aziraphale spotted him and smiled. He didn’t seem to want to tread past the wooden slats of the porch onto the wild grass beyond.

“I didn’t hear any castigation,” Aziraphale said brightly, “the plants must be relieved.”

Crowley mustered a small smile but didn’t reply. He sat on the wooden porch next to Aziraphale, who’d maintained his presence at about half solidity. In the sunlight, he looked even more unreal than he did in the house. Like a mirage.

“What-”

“Don’t ask me what I’m going to do, angel,” Crowley said, cutting him off.

“All right. What were you thinking of, just then?” Aziraphale had his hands folded in his lap. He looked out at the garden, squinting a little. “I noticed you had a thoughtful look on your face. And of course, you left the plants alone, which piqued my curiosity. Only I wondered-”

“I was thinking about a garden.”

“Well, yes.”

“Not this one,” Crowley said. He sighed, unsure how to translate the heaviness in his heart into words. “Although I was thinking about this one, too. Few vines over there need to be trained or they’ll run right over that fence next year. And what I think is henbane? I didn't notice it before. That's definitely not native to this area and I think it might be poisonous.”

Aziraphale stayed silent, patiently waiting for Crowley to explain. He wasn’t sure he could. Crowley had never been able to properly communicate what the garden meant to him. Had rarely been close enough to someone who wanted him to try.

He said, “There was a- I had a- I had an experience in a garden when I was small.”

Aziraphale placed his hand directly on top of Crowley's and hovered it there. If he were alive, his hand would've covered Crowley's, his plump fingers fitting perfectly over Crowley's knobby long ones. Instead of warmth and the soft texture of Aziraphale’s fingers, it felt like a pulse of static electricity. Crowley smiled, deciding to take comfort in the current of spiritual energy coming from his ghostly companion.

“It taught me a lot of things, but mainly how to rely on myself. Who to trust.”

I trust you.

He didn’t say it. Wasn’t even sure why he thought it. But he knew it was true. From the moment he’d seen Aziraphale walk straight through a pink sofa after saving his life, Crowley had felt something breaking open in his chest. The ghost who’d made his home here and then welcomed Crowley into it—he meant something, even if Crowley wasn’t sure what it was or how it might affect his future.

“Anyway. This garden, lots to do with it. Hard work, gardening,” Crowley said. “But I meant what I said. You’ve been here longer than any of us. You should get a say in what happens to this place. All of it, garden and all.”

Aziraphale said, “I’ve never been—consulted on decisions like this before.”

“Seems fair, don’t you think?”

“I don’t—no, actually.” Aziraphale’s voice had been soft, hesitant, but he gained confidence as he pondered. “No. I had my time, Crowley. And now it’s up. This is—extra. I’m not sure why or how I came to have this afterlife but it’s not consequential. I cannot influence the state of the world like you can, nor should I!”

“But-”

“It’s not up to me, Crowley. What happens here—I’m merely an observer.” Aziraphale’s face shimmered in the rising sun like a heat mirage on an empty road.

“That’s-”

“It’s how this has to be.”

“It’s a load of bollocks.”

“Excuse me?”

“Bollocks! Horse shite! What you just said is a bigger pile of nonsense than the one I stepped in yesterday. There are some big piles of dung around here, angel, you’ve seen these horses, and what you just said is bigger than-”

“I take your point, Crowley.”

“Good.”

“But you don’t understand. I’m dead. I _died_ , Crowley. Over two hundred years ago. The actions of the dead cannot supersede those of the living. It’s not—my actions don’t have consequences. Yours do.”

“Do I have to describe the horse shit to you again, angel? Because I will.” Crowley raked a hand through his hair, surprised at how quickly his fingers ran through the short strands. He’d changed it yesterday. He seemed to be doing that a lot here—changing. He paused, trying to find a way to express what Aziraphale had done in a way he would understand.

“Melons,” he said finally.

“Melons?”

“Melons. My head would be like that melon, splattered across the hallway, just waiting for a sorcerer to divine the future in the pattern of my brains, if it weren’t for you.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips but didn’t respond.

“I’d be dead, angel. If you think you can’t influence the world, you’re wrong. Because if you were right, I’d be dead.”

“I suppose.”

“And besides-”

_Besides there’s clearly something here, something between us. Otherwise I wouldn’t care so much. And I wouldn’t have jerked off thinking about you while you watched me, goddammit. What was that? It wasn’t nothing. Not for me._

He didn't finish the sentence.

Aziraphale stayed quiet beside him. Crowley could feel the wheels turning in his barely-visible head. The silence between them was as companionable as it ever had been, but Crowley wondered what was supposed to come next. What was the next chapter in this story?

“Listen, angel-”

Crowley’s phone interrupted him by vibrating on his ass. He snatched the phone from his back pocket. He vaguely recognized the number from his internet service confirmation and as he answered, heard a knocking at the front door.

“Oh! The internet! Real life at last.” Crowley scrambled to stand up. He let out a whoop at the possibility of connecting to someone other than the people on this daft island.

He left Aziraphale behind on the sun-brightened porch after taking one last look at Aziraphale’s face. His eyebrows were pulled together, pinching his forehead into a sad mess of wrinkles. Aziraphale shimmered in the sunlight, letting off waves of glowing worry. In the bright light of midday, Aziraphale was a phantom caught off guard, more at home in the dark.

Crowley let him be. There was nothing he could do about Aziraphale’s existential crisis. The real world was waiting.

* * *

The real world could go fuck itself.

The internet install had taken three times as long as it should have. The ordeal involved drilling multiple holes in the exterior of the house, painstakingly retracing existing wiring through crawl spaces Crowley had no idea even existed, and disturbing a rat army that had appeared to take up residence in the basement. Anathema had slept through it, and Aziraphale was off in the spirit realm, doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t hassling Crowley.

After all was said and done, Crowley cracked his knuckles and opened his laptop to 1,666 unread emails.

[Page 1 of 160]

_Please respond at your earliest convenience..._  
_Whenever you get this, please let me know..._  
_Please see attached for your review..._  
_Revisions needed to draft documents on page 86..._  
_Pending your review..._  
_Urgent: please respond..._  
_Priority, please read when you get a moment..._  
_Crowley I know you’ve read some of these..._  
_Dammit there’s a coffee shop on that island I know you can get emails..._  
_Your phone has Outlook on it..._  
_Crwly you better read this..._  
_Asshole, I’m paying your bills..._  
_I know where you are, Crowley..._  
_Mr. Crawly, see inside for your offer of 25% off!_

[Next Page >>]

Evening fell on Abaddon Cottage.

Crowley’s unread emails hovered in the six hundreds but he couldn't seem to get the number any lower than that. He moved from the kitchen table to the bedroom upstairs, then to the sitting room, watching the shadows grow and dance on the wallpaper. Beez’s missives had ranged from their usual demands to the pettiest tasks he knew they were sending him as punishment for being on leave. He put out the largest, shoutiest fires and logged off for the day when the sun was only visible as a bloody reflection splashed across the far wall.

Around six, Anathema crept downstairs, clutching the bannister and holding a large book. She rubbed her eyes and adjusted her glasses, still seeming half-asleep.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said with a wry smile.

“Right,” she replied without a trace of irony. “Is there anywhere on this island to get decent food? Preferably something not fried?”

At the mention of food, Aziraphale popped into existence faster than he ever had before. One minute the space next to him was empty, then the next, a man in a bowtie and house slippers was there, clasping his hands. Crowley blinked. He hadn’t even had time to sense Aziraphale’s arrival. Maybe the crafty ghost was getting better at hiding his presence, after all.

“I’ll cook! I have a recipe in mind that I believe will be quite scrummy, what do you say?” Aziraphale asked, in a tone that said he wouldn’t be taking no for an answer.

“Angel, you can’t just-”

“Yes, that sounds lovely,” Anathema said.

“Terrific!” Aziraphale floated into the kitchen, not bothering to walk around the furniture.

Crowley sighed and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t eaten much all day, either, and his stomach was telling him how much it wanted another one of Aziraphale’s meals.

“There’s all kinds of cool antiques in here,” Anathema said, drifting around the sitting room. He’d removed the white sheets covering the furniture in the sitting room, uncovering a tall grandfather clock and an antique sideboard. The pink sofa that had saved his life served as his current workstation, bloodstain notwithstanding. She picked up the receiver on an ancient rotary phone sitting idly on a squat wooden side table. “Like, does this phone even work?”

He shrugged. Then, when a dial tone hummed out of the receiver loud enough for him to hear, said, “Yes.”

Anathema settled on the cream sofa opposite him and opened her book. It was at least as old as the oldest book in Aziraphale’s den, and extremely thick. The pages had gone past yellow into tan with age, and seemed on the verge of cracking. Anathema didn’t seem to care. She flipped through the pages carelessly, murmuring to herself.

“What’s that?” He didn’t care, obviously, but he’d been relying on Aziraphale to distract him from the panic that rose in his gut whenever he considered the current state of his life and the ghost was busy making dinner. Now that he had access to his work files, he’d need a distraction from that, too, and this girl with her book seemed as good as any.

“It’s a book,” she said. Then, seeming to remember she was relying on his good graces for a roof over her head, changed her tone. “It’s my family’s most important possession. It’s our heritage.” She set the book on the large oval coffee table between them, opening it to a page at random. The script in the book was ornate and much too small for Crowley to read without a magnifying glass, but it looked like a recipe. The margins were covered with scribbled notes and doodles.

“Cookbook?”

“Among other things,” she said mysteriously. “I told you my family has certain abilities.” She paused, seeming to consider him and his utter lack of knowledge. “It’s your family too, I suppose.”

“Right, yeah, don’t know about that.” He carefully flipped through the book, not really understanding any of the information it contained. It had nothing to do with him. This extended family that Anathema belonged to wasn’t his, not really. Crowley flipped to the end of the book, where a loose page was stuck in the back. The writing on it was different from the rest, far more readable but no less clear. It looked like a set of instructions, but the vocabulary was old-fashioned and strange.

“What’s this page?” he asked.

“Agnes sent it to the family before she died, along with instructions.”

“Instructions?”

Anathema took the page and studied it. She looked as puzzled as he had been, her dark eyebrows furrowing as she scanned the page. In the evening light of the cottage, she looked younger than he’d considered her to be. She set the page back down in the book and pulled her hair back, tossing it behind her shoulders. “She said I was to come, alone, to see the property. Even paid for my ticket.”

“Huh.” Crowley spied a colorful flier tucked in the middle of the book and pulled it out. It was an ad from the Mackinac Island Town Crier that showed a puffed-up Shadwell holding an electric drill out like it was a weapon. He had a sneer on his face that seemed at odds with the aim of the advertisement, like he was scaring away potential customers instead of enticing them. “The Switchfinder Army” was emblazoned on the ad in almost-illegible font, along with a phone number and fine print that specified not to call on Thursdays.

Anathema snatched the ad from his hand and hugged it to her chest.

“Why did she send you that?” he asked. There appeared to be more handwritten notes on the back of it.

“I- umm, well,” Anathema stuttered. She was blushing furiously and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “She gave me some other instructions, too. And very personal advice.”

“Alright.” Crowley set aside the book. “And you really came all this way because your family and a book told you to?”

“Of course.” Her confident, snobbish tone was back. “Don't you listen to your family?”

“Nope. Don't have one. Didn't need them when I did.“

“Everyone needs a family,” she said, as if he were the twenty-something and she was twice his age.

He was about to strenuously disagree when Aziraphale called out from the kitchen.

“Crowley? Would you put on a record?”

“Huh?” he yelled back, smartly.

“My music collection. It’s in the den, do be a dear and put something nice on, perhaps a Strauss?”

Crowley said, “Hold that thought.” He crossed over the front hallway to Aziraphale’s den. He switched on an ancient-looking lamp and spied the gramophone in the corner. It was housed in an antique Welsh dresser that had a compartment for records in the body. The entire surface of the player and the dresser was covered in dust and the sleeves of the vinyls themselves looked like they would crumble to nothing if he so much as touched them.

Anathema came to stand behind him, peering at the ancient machine. “So you've gone with appeasement, then?”

“What?” Crowley found the speakers hooked up to the record player. These were less ancient than the player, probably from the seventies at the earliest. They were also covered in dust but seemed like they might be functional. 

“There are several ways to deal with ghosts. One is appeasement. Give them what they want and hope they'll go away when they've got it,” she said, matter of fact.

“No, that's-”

Anathema continued, over his objections, “It seems like an effective way to deal with this one, anyway. He's clearly not harmful but I wonder what would happen if you tried to-”

“I'm not going to exorcise him!” Crowley shouted, then lowered his voice, hoping Aziraphale hadn’t heard. The only sound coming from the kitchen, though, was the low rumbling of Aziraphale humming a jaunty tune while he chopped what smelled like an overwhelming amount of garlic.

She shrugged. 

“Besides, the ghost is making shrimp pasta tonight, I think. So what the ghost wants, the ghost gets.” Crowley sifted through the collection of records, vaguely recognizing names and overtures without any clue what an appropriate album would be to serenade his undead chef. Then, he realized the input to the speakers was a simple 3.5mm jack. Crowley smiled.

“Actually, watch this,” he said, wagging his eyebrows at Anathema, who stared blankly at him.

Crowley plugged the speakers into his phone and pulled up Spotify. He pressed play, then waltzed into the kitchen, hoping to catch Aziraphale’s reaction to the sudden booming sound of Strauss’s rendition of _Bohemian Rhapsody_.

* * *

The addition of Anathema to the dinner table made the space feel small and filled with bodies, though there were really only two instead of three. She said “sorry” or “excuse me” every time her elbow or her ankle brushed against Aziraphale’s insubstantial edges, until finally, Crowley thought the polite smile would snap Aziraphale’s face in two. He’d made garlic shrimp pasta, with cream sauce and a squeeze of lemon on top. It was the finest meal Crowley had ever had cooked for him. 

Crowley ate as slowly as he was able, conscious of Aziraphale watching him with rapturous attention. He tried to add sound effects to show how much he appreciated the meal, then stopped when he realized how sexual they sounded and that he couldn’t hide a scarlet blush under his hair anymore.

The strange trio made light conversation that alternated between friendly and painfully awkward. Anathema thanked Aziraphale profusely for the meal and offered to do the dishes afterward. Crowley made them tea while Aziraphale sat at the table, regarding them both with a pleased look on his face. When he slid the angel-wings mug over to him, Aziraphale smiled a small, sad smile. He inhaled the steam with his eyes closed and watched as Crowley and Anathema sipped theirs. 

The night ended in a silence that held several competing emotions at its edges.

After they’d said goodnight, Crowley stripped and got into bed, staring at the ceiling in his bedroom. His mind wandered over the events of the day, skimming over the many times Anathema had referred to her family, settling on Aziraphale’s face, watching him shove a piece of shrimp in his mouth. His wide smile had shone with an internal joy and that bright, ethereal glow that was unique to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale. His ghost who cooked him dinner. And watched him masturbate. _Shit_. The thought that he might be here, watching, sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. His cock stirred, coming alive with the possibility of a repeat of last night. Crowley’s hand wandered over his chest lightly, not dipping below his navel, not yet. Would Aziraphale show up again if he did?

“Angel?” he whispered into the night. “Are you here?”

The house swallowed his words and gave nothing in return.

His hardness, and the hope that Aziraphale might appear, faded. As Crowley fell into a tumultuous sleep, his dreams were rocked by waves of feeling he struggled to sail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (many millions of thanks to @Nymphalis_antiopa for beta reading and encouraging!)


	6. When the breath gets shallow and fast

[Diptera, B. 10:04 a.m.]   
What the hell is this, Crowley?   
[Crowley, A.J. 10:04 a.m.]   
Umm ...  
[Diptera, B. 10:04 a.m.]   
You misspelled the client’s name twice and this new brand book is just a barely-touched copy of the one from that frakking company.   
[Crowley, A.J. 10:04 a.m.]   
Yeah, look-  
[Diptera, B. 10:04 a.m.]   
Our clients don't pay us for boilerplate bullshit  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:04 a.m.]   
I know, I’m sorry  
[Diptera, B. 10:05 a.m.]   
Redo it and send it to me by end of business tomorrow  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:05 a.m.]   
Okay but what time is that? Your end of business or mine  
[Diptera, B. 10:05 a.m.]   
MY END OF BUSINESS OR IT’LL BE THE END OF YOU  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:05 a.m.]   
Got it, roger, understood boss  
[Diptera, B. 10:07 a.m.]   
Fucking hell, Crowley  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:07 a.m.]  
I’ll get it done, alright! You know I’m the best at this, you don’t have anybody else with my finesse  
[Diptera, B. 10:09 a.m.]  
Shut it. You’re on thin ice over there in happy-town, USA  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:09 a.m.]  
Where exactly do you think I am?  
[Diptera, B. 10:09 a.m.]  
You better not be fucking around with every single asshole on that island  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:09 a.m.]  
If you saw the blokes on this island you would understand how ridiculous that assertion is  
[Diptera, B. 10:10 a.m.]  
END of BUSINESS Crowley  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:13 a.m.]  
Right, right, I got it  
[Diptera, B. 10:13 a.m.]  
Also I'm sending someone to help you  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:13 a.m.]  
What  
[Diptera, B. 10:14 a.m.]  
You clearly can't deal with this property on your own  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:14 a.m.]  
What  
[Diptera, B. 10:20 a.m.]  
It's been a week and you don't even have it listed  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:20 a.m.]  
What  
[Diptera, B. 10:21 a.m.]  
So it must be a dump and my guy will get you a good deal on the land  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:21 a.m.]  
What  
[Diptera, B. 10:21 a.m.]  
Maybe not a good deal  
[Diptera, B. 10:22 a.m.]  
Actually check the deal he gives you, it might be very bad  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:22 a.m.]  
… What  
[Diptera, B. 10:24 a.m.]  
HEL, LLC, he'll be there sometime soon  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:22 a.m.]  
I cannot stress this enough… What?  
[Diptera, B. 10:24 a.m.]  
Home Evaluation and Leveling! Keep up, Crowley! They'll bulldoze the place and give you cash for the land  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:24 a.m.]  
No! What? No.  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:26 a.m.]  
Beez? No!  
[Crowley, A.J. 10:29 a.m.]  
Why did you-

[Diptera, B. is offline and won't receive your messages]

“Everything alright, dear?”

Crowley jumped, spilling his coffee all over the patio table. He’d found it in the side yard and dragged it onto the porch when the morning sunlight had made it warm enough to work comfortably outside.

Aziraphale watched him furiously dabbing at the mess with a napkin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tartan-patterned kerchief, then seemed to remember it wasn’t tangible to anyone but him. He tucked it back inside his coat. Eventually, Aziraphale said, “For the record, I was sitting here for nearly half an hour this time. Our arrangement is intact.” His face was the picture of innocence. _Bastard_.

“Yeah, you’re right, angel, sorry.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair, wondering how long it would take him to grow it back out. His hands needed something to do, something to pull at. “Just jumpy, I suppose.”

“Perhaps we should think about decreasing your caffeine intake, hmm?” He said this with a completely sincere expression. Crowley sputtered, so indignant at the suggestion words refused to form. Aziraphale acquiesced, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Suit yourself, my dear.”

 _My dear._ That was two ‘dears’ in a two-minute conversation. Crowley slammed his laptop shut and folded his arms in defiance of his rapidly beating heart.

“Where's book girl?”

“ _Anathema_ went into town,” said Aziraphale, with emphasis on the girl’s ridiculous name. “She said she had research to do.”

Crowley sniffed. “Do I want to know what kind?”

“From your tone I gather not,” Aziraphale replied. He pursed his lips in a teasing look that would’ve been snotty on a real person. The fact that Aziraphale was shimmering slightly in the morning sun took the edge off his teasing. Or maybe it was the familiarity that did it. Crowley had grown accustomed to being on the business end of those plump lips, curled into smirking smiles that concealed all sorts of mischief. 

“Right.”

“And she's doing the shop.”

“You sent her out with a list, didn't you?”

“I need to replenish our cupboards, Crowley!” Aziraphale put on a plaintive voice, one that made Crowley want to do whatever he asked, whether it was making him a cup of tea so he could savor the scent, or stroll into a burning building to rescue one of his precious books.

Crowley said, “Well I hope she's loaded. Knowing you, we'll be up to our eyeballs in filet mignon.”

“She is,” Aziraphale shot back.

“What?”

“Loaded. Her family has a trust fund, so I understand.”

“Oh, well. That's sorted.”

“Quite. And I believe Ms. Device is a pescatarian, so I needed to adjust my plans.” Aziraphale adjusted his bowtie, though it had been perfectly straight and was made of whatever ghostly material he was so it wouldn’t have moved unless he wanted it to. He shimmied his shoulders a little, clearly anticipating the meals he might make using the ingredients he’d requested. 

Crowley watched him wiggle, feeling a blush taking over his cheeks. This flirtation was getting out of hand. He should stop. He should redo the brand book for the vaping company that had aggressively marketed a dangerous product to children, correcting their name and coming up with an original approach to rebranding their product. Beez had given him a deadline and that was more important than the seasick flop his stomach did whenever Aziraphale trained that lighthouse-beacon smile on him. He should stop this, whatever it was. (He didn’t stop.)

He put on his best smirk and said, “I thought she was a witch.”

“She may be that too, only time will tell.”

They both smiled, and met each other’s eyes. It was a moment of perfectly balanced tension. Crowley felt like they were on the edge of something, like a soap bubble about to burst into a rainbow of colors. Or it was him, teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to fall into unknown waters. Crowley broke eye contact first. He cleared his throat and reopened his laptop.

“What is it you do, exactly?” Aziraphale asked.

“I, uh- I work for some unsavory people, angel. It pays well and I’m good at it, but-”

“If you'd rather not talk about it, don't. I'll never force you to-” He paused, considering his words carefully. Crowley felt him receding, backing away from whatever moment they’d just shared. “It's not my business to know yours. You and I are-we shouldn’t be-and yet-”

He was interrupted by the front door crashing open and loudly banging against the wall. What sounded like a herd of elephants tumbled through the foyer and into the sitting room. Multiple voices, including Anathema's, were shouting over each other.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley.

The moment, whatever it had been, was gone. Crowley sagged his shoulders, closed his laptop, and went inside to investigate.

“He crashed right in front of me!” Anathema explained. She was barely holding up a disheveled young man in dress trousers and a silly tie. The man was clearly groggy, and had a bruise forming on his cheek. He looked to be around the same age as Anathema, and despite his current state of disarray, fairly attractive. In his hands, he was clutching a severely bent unicycle to his chest like it was a precious family heirloom. “Luckily these kids were passing by to help me get him back here.”

Crowley blinked, not quite processing the scene.

Then, the kids all started talking at once. There were four of them and the noise of their shrieking voices bounced off the high ceiling of Abaddon Cottage’s foyer.

Crowley blinked again, looking from one young face to the next.

“Everything all right in here?” Aziraphale walked into the room with his hands nervously clasped in front of him. He'd remembered to manifest his legs, and was clearly doing his best to appear as solid as possible.

Aziraphale, the two-hundred-and-something year old ghost, was trying to appear normal. Crowley’s mouth twitched into a smile. It didn't work at all. The kids were onto him immediately.

“Are you a ghost?” Adam asked, his fuzzy eyebrows pulling together. He had a clear, keen gaze that saw right through Aziraphale’s attempt to blend in with the living.

“No way he's a ghost!” the tallest boy replied, scrunching up his nose.

“But, actually, he does look like a ghost,” the boy wearing glasses added.

The girl of the group pushed her way to the front, standing in front of Aziraphale, hands on her hips. She said confidently, “If he's a ghost, we can prove it!”

Aziraphale, looking slightly ill, said, “Excuse me, but-”

The man in Anathema’s arms sagged, and she said, “We really should get him upstairs. He needs to lie down.” 

Crowley rushed over and took the man’s other arm around his shoulder. He was young, but sturdy. He was murmuring unintelligible syllables, something about space aliens and the earth’s carbon footprint. Anathema was right, this was out of their league. He steered them up the stairs, shouldering most of the man’s weight while Anathema kept him upright.

“Sorry, angel, but can you deal with the kids? Thanks,” he said, not waiting for a reply.

“I- oh, bother.”

Adam and his friends took turns trying to poke him and letting out little yelps when their hands went right through his insubstantial body. Aziraphale looked annoyed. He had the face of a man who’d requested a room with a seaside view but had gotten one looking out over a car park. 

Crowley and Anathema left the kids huddled around Aziraphale and hauled the semi-conscious man upstairs. “We can put him in my room, the other one’s too musty,” Anathema said, steering him to the room with the rose-patterned wallpaper. Crowley hadn’t looked too closely at either of the rooms but wasn’t about to argue. If Anathema wanted to play nurse to an attractive stranger that was her business.

“Fine.”

They deposited the man, who was now groaning in a rather pathetic way, onto the bed. Anathema regarded him with a curious look on her face, like she was trying to decide whether or not she should take in a bedraggled stray cat.

Crowley pulled up his appointment confirmation at _A Snip at the Price_ on his phone. He handed it to Anathema and said, “Call this number and ask for Dr. Johnson. She’ll know what to do.”

While Anathema typed the number and dialed, he studied the mirrored vanity in the corner of the room. She’d put a poster-board over the mirror, and on it, pinned a series of map cutouts, handwritten notes, Internet articles, and post-it notes. The giant family book she’d showed him the night before was sitting in the middle of the chaos, like a pearl squatting in the open mouth of a clam.

“Gosh,” said Crowley. The board looked like something out of a serial killer television show or a conspiracy theorist’s basement. He’d known Anathema was a bit odd, but this was on another level.

She handed him back his phone and said, “Dr. Johnson’ll be here in an hour or so. She said if he’s not bleeding out or vomiting to just let him be and he’d live. I like her.”

“Me too. What’s all this?”

Anathema pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Research. Agnes sent over one hundred messages to the family before she died. They’re kind of-” she paused, considering. “I guess they’re predictions. Some have instructions, but some are infuriatingly vague. The family calls them _prophecies_ because many of them have come true since we received them. Agnes’s side was known to have the power of foresight.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Right. Well, I’d best see how the angel is getting on with the kids.”

“Why do you call him that?”

“What?”

“Angel.” She cocked her head to the side and studied him, as though he was a redheaded butterfly with a pin stuck in his wing. He shrugged.  
  
“It's just a nickname.”

“Nothing is ‘ _just_ ’ anything when it comes to names,” she said. Her eyebrows raised in a “don’t you know anything” kind of look.

He shrugged again. “That's-it's-nothing, just easier to say than Aziraphale.” It was the truth: Angel was easier to say than Aziraphale. It wasn’t anywhere near the whole truth, though. _Aziraphale_ was the haughty ghost with the mugs of cocoa and the “put on a record, dear” requests. _Angel_ was the bastard who’d teased him while nursing his head wound and showed up in his room at night. He wasn’t ready to name all the things the angel meant to him, though they’d only known one another for a short time.

“Okay, but of all the things you could call him, you call him _angel_.”

“Yeah, so?”

“That gives it power.”

“You lost me.”

“Have you ever been called the wrong name?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“Yes!” he said, trying not to shout. The strange sleeping lad murmured a little but otherwise seemed undisturbed. “By literally every single person on this island, including you. He’s the only one who- actually, he’s the only one who never did.” Crowley’s eyebrows knitted together. He realized it only as the words came out of his mouth.

“And when you correct them, you assert your own name. You give your name power by saying it's yours.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with nicknames? I call you ‘book girl’. It means nothing.”

“It does, though,” she insisted. “You latched onto the book and you associate me with it. That gives the book power.” She nodded toward the book, like he’d forgotten it was there. She spoke about it like it was a person. It was unsettling. “It’s also a diminutive, calling me ‘girl’ when I’m a grown woman. Affectionate, maybe, but also slightly sexist.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Accepted.”

“But you lost me with the book thing. I'm giving a _book_ power?”

“Yes. It's the same as me calling it my heirloom or my family's legacy. By naming it that, I make it so.”

He folded his hands over his chest. They faced each other, neither budging. “And by calling Aziraphale an angel, you think I'm literally turning him into an angel? I knew I wouldn't get along with your side of the family.”

Finally, she relented. “Not necessarily,” she said. Anathema stood next to him and peered at the board, her eyes unfocused. “I haven't figured it out yet but there's something here, in the way you've named him. It speaks something into being but I'm not sure what yet.”

He shrugged. “Well, call me when you figure it out. Or don't, actually.”

Crowley had turned to leave when one of the post-it notes stuck to the wall fluttered down and stuck to his shoulder. It said, “An angel shall break his great fall; no future’s divination to enthrall.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“What is it?”

 _Fruit haruspexy_. The future divined in a melon rind. Or his brains, splattered across the entryway. _A great fall._

“Nothing,” he said, crumpling the note. He tossed it in the bin. “Ciao.”

When Crowley returned downstairs, Aziraphale was sitting on the blood-stained sofa, reading from a very old book to the four tweens, who sat on the floor, gazing at him in rapt attention.

_“‘Far away beyond the pine-woods,’ he answered, in a low, dreamy voice, ‘there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.’_   
_Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.”_

Crowley crept across the hallway, treading lightly so as not to disturb the reading. Aziraphale’s face was relaxed and calm, and he changed his voice to suit the passage. He’d manifested little round spectacles that perched on his nose. Crowley unsuccessfully fought with the smile breaking out on his face.

Aziraphale continued.

_‘You mean the Garden of Death,’ she whispered._   
_‘Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.’_

One of the kids, the one that seemed grimier than the others, raised his hand to ask a question. Aziraphale marked his place in the book with a blue ribbon.

“Oh, Crowley, there you are,” he said, smiling up at him.

“Yeah, playtime is over,” Crowley said. “Doctor Johnson said the unicycle man is going to be fine and you lot have undoubtedly been reported missing from juvenile detention.” He opened the front door and held it open.

“Hey!” the girl exclaimed, “we’re not delinquents.”

“Actually, there was that one time-” the boy in glasses started to say.

“Don’t tell him about that!” said Adam, who seemed to be the leader of the little gang. “Anyway, we should go to the ice cream stand and see if we can get them to give us a free cone.”

The three kids followed Adam out the door, waving to Aziraphale as they left.

“Bye, Mr. Fell!”

“Goodbye, dears,” Aziraphale said, smiling and waving.

Crowley watched them approach a horse that had been crudely tied to his fencepost. Adam and the girl effortlessly mounted a black-and-white dappled mare while the other two boys mounted their bicycles, which had been leaning on the fence.

“Is that your horse? He better not be eating my lawn!” Crowley yelled after them.

“He wouldn't!” Adam yelled back. “Dog is a very well-behaved horse.”

“That's a terrible name for a horse!” Crowley shouted, but they were already trotting away from the fence and down the lane.

* * *

Doctor Johnson came and went, taking the wayward unicyclist with her. She gave him an Advil and promised to return him to his mother. Anathema and Crowley looked at one other and mutually decided it wasn't necessary to comment on that. Anathema returned to her research and Crowley cracked open his laptop. _The Last Unicorn Juice_ line of flavored vaping products weren't going to rebrand themselves.

Hours later, he'd finished working and pulled up Google to search for HEL, LLC, when Aziraphale called them in for dinner. Crowley joined Anathema at the kitchen table, where she'd set out a bottle of wine and three glasses.

“Book girl, what are we drinking?”

“I asked for a recommendation and the store owner said this one has a nice label, so…” she shrugged.

“I'll take it.” Crowley poured himself a glass, then started to pour one for Aziraphale, but Aziraphale stopped him. He covered the glass with his hand, and shook his head. 

“No need, dear,” he said with a sad smile.

Dinner was a quiet, intimate affair, and much more relaxed than the night before. The strange events of the day provided a relief valve for the tension that simmered between the ghost, the owner of the house he haunted, and the girl who wanted to take it from them.

Crowley washed up while Aziraphale and Anathema chatted. Aziraphale peppered her with questions about California, his eyes growing saucer round when she described a trip through wine country and downright disbelieving when she recounted adventures in Disneyland. Crowley felt his chest growing tight as he listened to them chatter. The silence of the house receded, beaten back by voices and laughter and the clink of a wine glass against the table. 

They said goodnight, parting at the second-floor landing. Aziraphale remained visible for a few seconds longer, lingering in the periphery of his vision. 

“Goodnight, Crowley,” he said softly.

“Goodnight, angel.”

Before he climbed into bed to sleep, Crowley felt a surge of—not bravery, exactly—but the sort of _fuck-it-all_ desperation that makes you plunge over a waterfall not knowing how far down you’d fall, and all the while the barrel you’re sitting in is shoving splinters in your ass. The sort of desperation that makes you want to tempt a ghost.

Crowley stripped to his skivvies, tousled his hair, and spritzed himself with a hint of cologne. He pulled the chair— _Aziraphale’s_ chair—closer to the bed, within arm’s reach. Sitting in it, Aziraphale would have to make eye contact. _If_ he showed up and sat in it, that is.

Crowley waited.

He sat upright, legs splayed out in front of him, staring at the chair. His bare skin pricked with the cool night air and anticipation. Would he show up?

The room was blue with the wan light of the moon’s razor-thin crescent. His breaths seemed to echo off the walls and bounce around the room. He trailed a hand down his chest, lightly feeling the skin ripple with gooseflesh. The room was still empty. He stroked his own abdomen, tickling the dark hairs that peeked out of his pants.

Crowley couldn’t wait any longer.

He stroked himself, slowly, over the fabric of his pants. His eyes never left the chair. His breaths grew shorter as he grew harder. He ran his thumb in circles over the head of his cock, feeling his desire building.

The sense of Aziraphale was intense. It hit him a split second before he appeared, prim as ever, standing in the corner. Crowley’s cock pulsed as a new wave of adrenaline hit him but he kept an even rhythm with his hand.

Crowley lifted a cocky eyebrow. He couldn't help rolling his hips now, chasing the sensations dulled by the fabric between his hand and aching cock.

Aziraphale looked from him to the chair and back. He hesitated, pulling at his empty hands. Finally, he met Crowley’s eyes, licked his lips, and said, “Oh, _good Lord_.”

“See something you like, angel?”

Suddenly, Aziraphale was seated in the chair. He hadn’t bothered to walk the three paces it would’ve taken, as if he couldn’t bear to waste a second. Crowley felt a new rush of desire coursing through his body, causing every hair to stand on end. He’d crashed over the edge of the waterfall and was drowning in the desire he saw in those ice-blue eyes.

“I think you know the answer to that, my dear boy,” Aziraphale whispered.

_Aziraphale wanted him._

“Fuck,” he whispered back, hesitant to break the silence.

Aziraphale’s hungry eyes took in the sight of him, lingering over his long legs, splayed out against the sheets. Crowley wriggled out of his pants and hastily dabbed some lubricant onto his fingers, unable to care whether the sight was sexy or not. Aziraphale didn’t tease. His eyes roamed over Crowley’s naked body, his ethereal glow lighting up the room with a hazy white light that made him impossibly beautiful.

Crowley reached for him.

Aziraphale reached back.

Their fingers met, and Crowley felt the comforting cool static of Aziraphale’s presence. It sent tingling sensations up his arm and made his whole body feel alive.

“My dear, this is rather difficult,” Aziraphale said, his voice tight. The iridescent palm of his hand was flush with Crowley’s.

Crowley pulled back. He stopped stroking but kept his fist loosely around his cock, covering himself. “I’m sorry, angel, I-”

“No!” Aziraphale reached for him again, accidentally putting a hand through Crowley’s shoulder. “It’s not that.” His face was desperate, like he urgently needed Crowley to understand. “It’s difficult because I cannot touch you, my darling.”

All the air left Crowley’s lungs. He wanted to surge forward and gather Aziraphale in his arms. He wanted to kiss him senseless. He wanted—

“Angel,” was all he could say.

Suddenly, Aziraphale was above him, hovering in the air. His pale face was so close to Crowley’s. Had he been alive, Aziraphale’s breath would’ve tickled his cheek. Instead, Crowley felt him as a cool breeze. Like a thin fresh sheet, draped lightly over his body, tickling him where it made contact.

Crowley stroked himself steadily. He was so hard and Aziraphale was _here_ and he wanted, oh how he wanted—

“If I could, I-” Aziraphale said, then stopped himself. He met Crowley’s desperate gaze and in his eyes, Crowley saw a mirror of his own want.

“What would you do, angel?” he whispered.

“I would touch every part of you, my dear.” Aziraphale looked down at his naked body again, watching the head of Crowley’s cock appearing from the confines of his fist as he stroked himself. “I would taste you. If I could, I would-”

Crowley bucked his hips up, desperately seeking release. He spread his legs wide, giving Aziraphale a full view of him. “Anything, you could do anything, angel.”

The grin that lit up Aziraphale’s face was a flare, lighting up the night. He shimmered in the darkness, lighting up Crowley’s room. He was a beacon, calling Crowley home.

“I’m going to come,” he said. He couldn’t stop.

“Yes, you are.” Aziraphale’s voice was soft but firm. He spoke into Crowley’s ear and trailed his ghostly hand down his body, until he joined it with Crowley’s own frantic pumping fist. It was like the shadow of a hand, barely passing over him. The charged current of Aziraphale’s presence complemented his own furious strokes, building to a crescendo and sending him careening over the edge.

“Come for me, darling.”

As he crashed into orgasm, Crowley was vaguely aware of a sudden surge of electricity. The energy crackling in the air was tangible, standing the hairs on the back of his hand on edge as he clenched his fist tight, still chasing the final crest of the wave. His ears rang and his vision blanked. Every cell in his body was alive, singing, stunned into overload.

A blinding flash of light threw shadows on the back of his eyelids. The smell of ozone and seawater filled his senses, drowning him in _Aziraphale_ — 

— a sharp intake of breath above him— 

Then Crowley was swallowed by intense darkness and an eerie, empty silence.

His hand was still on his cock, come and sweat cooling on his chest. He flexed his fingers carefully, unsticking them with an awkward squelch. Aziraphale was seated now, lips parted, looking mostly back to normal but for a wild look in those deep blue eyes.

The house was still. Too still.

He glanced to the bedside table and saw his phone was dark even though it was plugged in to charge. The plug on the lamp next to it had deep black scorch marks radiating from the socket like the tendrils of a sooty finger.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, concerned. “That may have been me. The wiring in this old house isn’t what it used to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is reading from “The Canterville Ghost” by Oscar Wilde. It’s a humorous story about an English ghost who tries and fails to frighten an American family that moves into his country estate. They are not impressed by his attempts at haunting and keep offering him pragmatic American solutions to his ghostly problems. It was the first of Wilde’s stories to be published. (It's wickedly funny, too, though it's Wilde, so of course it is.)


	7. Can’t you see I’m losing it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sadness. This one is sad and a little spooky. I promise this fic will have a happy (if not traditionally happy) ending but there’s some more pain to get through before that.  
> 2) Content. This Aziraphale was alive during eras that were not kind to LGBT+ people. Period-typical homophobia is referenced briefly in this chapter via dialogue but it’s not directed at him in the present and there are no slurs.  
> 3) Content2. This chapter digs into some toxic family dynamics. Heads-up, in case that type of theme is tough to read for folks. I wasn’t sure how much the found-family theme would be present here until Anathema showed up and told me. So here we are  
> 4) Reference. The last line in this chapter is a direct homage to the 1947 film The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. It's a romantic (but outdated), sad and lovely film.  
> 5) Thanks. Thank you as always to @Nymphalis_antiopa for beta reading and support! And thank you to the communities on discord for being fun feral little (or not so little) families.

They didn’t talk about it.

Aziraphale’s fingers brushed lightly through Crowley's when he handed Crowley a steaming mug. The smile on the angel's face contained a novel’s worth of expressions but neither he nor Crowley spoke.

“ _A great darkness shall summon an Army of Two_ ,” Anathema said. “The house went dark, so I get that, but no idea what the ‘Army of Two’ means.”

“What?” Crowley asked. He’d completely forgotten she was there.

“Prophecy fifty-eight. Agnes predicted the lights going out somehow. But why? And how did it happen, anyway? I know this house is old but there wasn’t a storm or anything…”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows innocently, then vanished before he was forced to explain anything.

“Yeah, I already called the electrician. He’s an odd bloke but he’s available. If we’re going to sell this place, the wiring needs to be updated anyway,” Crowley said, looking at his phone, then putting it away before he ran the battery down.

“We?” Anathema mouthed the word but didn’t say it.

He waved her and the unintentional slip aside and went out the kitchen door.

Aziraphale was standing in the garden, wringing his hands. He hadn’t seen or heard Crowley approach. The sunlight reflected off his glowing face, rendering him every bit the angel. Resplendent in glory, Crowley thought.

“Angel?” Crowley stood beside him. If he lifted onto his toes, he could peek over the fence and out onto the glittering expanse of the lakes beyond. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, dear.” The smile was back on his face but it was guarded, hesitant. Aziraphale still hid, sometimes.

“Were you a soldier? At the fort?” Crowley wanted to know. He wanted to know why Aziraphale wanted him. He wanted to know why the smell of the lakes clung to him and why he had caressed Crowley’s face last night and why was _here_ , in Michigan, and why— 

“That was a long time ago.” Aziraphale’s voice was low and cautious.

“Do you want to talk about it or...”

“I was rubbish, if you must know. As proficient at being a soldier as I am at haunting this house,” Aziraphale said.

The reply was out of his mouth before Crowley could stop it. “I don’t know, you haunted _me_ pretty good last night.”

The look Aziraphale gave him in response was half scandal, half sass. He cleared his throat and tried to arrange his features in a look of prim disapproval but it didn’t work. He just looked pleased. “Regardless, I died and I'm much more comfortable here with my books and my cocoa, even if I can't drink it.”

“But what happened?” Crowley asked. “Were you in a battle? Do you have a gruesome wound under that waistcoat?” He’d wanted to know ever since Aziraphale had touched his head that first night, calming him and bringing him into a ghost story whether he'd wanted to be there or not.

“No! Nothing like that,” Aziraphale said. “I simply-” He paused, twisting the ring on his pinky finger. It glinted in the sunlight. “Oh, Crowley, it's somewhat humiliating.”

“You don't have to tell me anything, angel. I wanted to know but you don’t owe me an explanation. I just-” 

_I just want to know you._

Crowley clamped his mouth shut. He looked out over the fence at the lake, marveling at how blue it was in the daytime. How bright and shiny it was, concealing secrets behind the glittering waves on its surface.

After a moment, Aziraphale spoke. His voice was soft but not sad. As if he were recalling a memory that had pained him once but now he’d drifted so far from it that he had to stretch himself to recall it. “I couldn't fight. I simply couldn't bring myself to raise my weapon in defense of this silly island that doesn't belong to Britain any more than it did to America. We took it and then they took it from us, what folly to murder each other over that.”

“Hear, hear.” Crowley nodded.

“My comrades didn't like that, of course.”

“I imagine not. Could you leave? Go back to London?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said, “no, I enlisted specifically to leave London. My circumstances there were not tenable. Things were- my family, they were not-” 

He pulled even harder on the ring, until Crowley thought he might take it all the way off his finger. Crowley waited for him to continue, holding his breath.

“I understand it's different now,” he said. His voice trembled but there was hope in it. “There are parades and rainbows. But then-” He looked down at his feet.

Understanding rose in Crowley like a wave, crashing into him and buckling his knees. “Oh, angel-”

“Things were not easy for people like-”

Finally, Aziraphale met his eyes.

Crowley said, “People like us.”

“Like us, yes,” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley reached out to take Aziraphale’s hand, remembering too late he wouldn’t be able to hold it. The sad smile Aziraphale gave him made him look every minute of his two hundred years.

“Let’s go back inside, dear. _Your_ army will be here soon.”

* * *

“Concussion guy!” Crowley said, grinning and holding open the door.

“It’s, um, Newt, actually,” the young man said, ducking his head and looking chagrined as he entered the foyer. “Thank you, though, for yesterday.” He said this to Crowley but his gaze was directed at Anathema, who stood in the entranceway with her mouth open. Their eyes locked and Crowley could practically feel the spark in the air between them.

“Aye, laddy, enough gawping! Get to work, ye great buffoon!” Shadwell stormed into the hall, promptly dissipating any tension that had arisen between his assistant and the young woman who’d saved him from a nasty fall.

“ _The eye of Newt shall roam far and wid_ e,” Anathema said, low enough for only Crowley to hear. Their eyes met. He shrugged off her significant look and closed the door.

While Shadwell and his erstwhile assistant set up their gear and plodded through the house knocking on walls to find studs and removing switch plates, Anathema set up her kit on the table in the sitting room. Crowley sat on the bloodstained sofa across from her and played a game on his phone using what little cell service and battery life he had. Anathema flipped through the giant family book, furrowing her eyebrows and murmuring under her breath

Finally, he said, “If you keep frowning like that, your face’ll get stuck.”

She stuck her tongue out at him in response.

After a few more minutes of intense concentration, Anathema glanced up just as the young electrician entered the room. He met her gaze, then immediately turned around and went back to the kitchen. She smiled, then immediately scowled when Crowley caught her.

He tongued the inside of his cheek and bit back a teasing remark. 

“What do you think this is, then?” she asked, obviously trying to change the subject. Anathema pointed to a line in her great big book and said, “' _When the moon drips into the sea, the garden’s guardian leaves his post.'_ The moon dripping is obviously the blood moon, which is-” She checked her watch, a ridiculously old-fashioned-looking contraption that somehow told her the date. “Next week.”

“Obviously,” he said snottily.

“But what about the garden? The house has a garden and you like to go out there, I’ve noticed, but _guardian_?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Dunno,” he mumbled.

She frowned. “Okay, how about this one? _‘A corporal he was not, but corporal he shall be._ ’”

_Were you a soldier, angel?_

Crowley looked away.

“You know something!” she shouted. “Come on, Crowley, help me with these, please.”

“I don’t know!” he shouted back. They glared at each other for a heated moment. Then, he deflated and said, “It might be Aziraphale. This was a fort, with soldiers, you know.”

Understanding lit up her face. “Angel! You call him angel…. _guardian_ angel.” She flipped through the book hurriedly, scribbling notes in the margins with a pen.

“Right. I’m going to-” he got up to leave, then realized he’d need a destination. “I’m going to get a bottle of wine. For dinner tonight.” He nodded, satisfied with his impromptu excuse.

“Fine, I’ll tell them to bill you,” Anathema said, not looking up from her notes.

“Ta.”

* * *

Crowley meandered around main street for a while before stopping into the market where Mr. Young would undoubtedly foist Midwestern friendliness upon him whether he wanted it or not. Tourist season was winding down, so the streets were busy but not bursting. Families milled about, losing ice cream scoops to the pavement and shoving fudge in their faces. Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to let his mind wander somewhere other than back to his haunted house.

At the market, Mr. Young waved cheerfully and pointed him to the liquor section of his store. It was nothing more than a back corner with a wooden case filled with wines and a handful of liquor bottles next to a beer fridge. Crowley picked a bottle in the middle of the shelf. It had a picture of a lighthouse on the label. The sepia tone of the photo gave it a somber feel but somehow he knew Aziraphale would like it. He'd give him a private smile, one that pinched his cheeks into little hearts. A smile meant just for Crowley and no one else.

He turned to go when he bumped into a large, square man wearing a tailored suit.

“Pardon,” he muttered. 

The man reached across him to the edge of the liquor shelf, getting much too close to Crowley for comfort. He grabbed a bottle of Goldschlager that was gathering dust on the top shelf. He regarded it fondly for a moment before turning to show Crowley. Only then did he seem to notice who he'd bumped into.

“You must be Mr. Crawly! It's a miracle I ran into you here!” He chuckled in a way that made it clear he expected Crowley to chuckle right along, though he hadn't said anything funny.

He didn't. “Crowley."

“What's that?”

“It's Crowley, not Crawly.”

“Of course. Sure, whatever.”

The man clapped him on the back and said, “How are you holding up out there? I've heard you called the Doofus Army to do some work for you, hope they do a decent job.”

“Yeah, seems alright,” Crowley said, reluctant somehow to insult Shadwell's operation. This man made Crowley's lip curl into a sneer.

“Good! The bones you've got out there are solid, Crawly, solid I say.”

“Crowley.”

“Right! You'll have to show me around sometime." He handed Crowley a business card that said: _Gabriel S., I Buy Houses!_ “I'm sure if we gutted your place, we could get you six figures for the bones.”

Bones. Why did he keep saying bones? Gabriel was still talking. The conversation was directed at Crowley instead of involving him.

“Listen, what you do, Crawly, is you strip it to the studs. Take off every piece of rotting wallpaper and replace it with shiplap! Or whatever the hell is on HGTV these days, it could be swiss cheese for all I care! If it's on TV people will pay for it, am I right?” He didn't wait for an answer.

Gabriel looked down at the bottle in Crowley's hands. “Is that what you're getting? Must not have company to impress!” He laughed so hard the row of bottles shook a little.

“Right, well, I should be getting on,” Crowley said.

The large man stepped back to let him go. He made a 'call me' gesture with his hand, then went back to admiring his gold-flecked liqueur.

Crowley paid for the middle-of-the-rack lighthouse wine, now feeling self-conscious about it. He stepped back out onto main street, with the wine tucked under his arm. He walked towards the cottage but turned toward the interior of the island instead of keeping to the perimeter path. He took a deep breath in, smelling the point where the scent of trees overtook his awareness of the lake.

Bones. 

He pictured Gabriel in the house, telling him all the things wrong with it. Crowley frowned at the thought. As he walked along the path, the trees closed in behind him, making him feel far away from what civilization existed on the island. He could hear a few bird calls high above. They sounded lonely, like the last remnants of a flock trying to find one another.

If he sold the house to Gabriel, he'd be able to leave. Gabriel would strip it to its bones. He'd remove everything that has ever meant something to the inhabitants. The rose wallpaper in Anathema's room, gone. The bloodstained sofa, burned probably. The garden, uprooted.

 _Aziraphale_.

What would happen to him if something happened to the house?

Crowley saw him standing in the house as it lost its layers. Would Aziraphale fade if a developer took a wall here and there? Would he become less visible over time as the drywall came down and the bric-a-brac was cleared? He saw the house as an empty skeleton standing on a dark beach, with Aziraphale its heart.

The clop-clop-clop of hooves sounded behind him. Crowley barely had time to react to it before the horse and its rider were right behind him. The next thing he knew, hot, sticky breath was tickling his ear.

“Fuck!” Crowley jumped back, tripping over his own feet as he recoiled from the horse, which seemed even more enormous than he’d remembered. His inexpensive wine bottle clattered to the ground and rolled a few feet away but didn't break. Adam’s curly hair emerged from behind the horse’s mane. 

“Don’t repeat that! I didn’t say that.”

“It’s okay, mom says it all the time,” Adam replied. He didn’t dismount from Dog, who kept sniffing Crowley curiously. “My dad says ‘golly gee’ instead but that’s what he really means when he says it.”

“Right.” Crowley stayed very still, allowing Dog the horse to breathe all over him. He wrinkled his nose but otherwise didn’t move, lest he spook the animal.

“What are you doing out here by yourself, anyway?” Adam asked.

“Could ask you the same.”

“I’m thinking. And walking Dog. He needs to have exercise every day for his mental and physical health, my mom says. Until he goes in for the winter, anyway.” Adam cocked his head to the side and considered Crowley with a gaze that seemed older than he was.

“Right. Well, thinking. That’s, ah, actually I was doing the same,” Crowley admitted.

Adam nodded. “If you ever want to borrow Dog, you could. Just call my dad and ask for me. I’ll let you take him out if you promise to bring him back.”

Crowley snorted. Him? Riding a horse? Not likely. “Thanks, kid,” he said. “Vintage automobiles are more my speed, but thanks.”

“Okay. See you, then.” He flicked the reins and nudged Dog back onto the trail. Before he was out of earshot, Adam yelled, “Tell Mr. Fell the ghost I said hello!”

Crowley dusted off his pants and retrieved the wine bottle from where it had fallen in the grass. He gave up on solitude and headed back to the cottage where his ghost and his great-grand-niece-something-removed were waiting.

* * *

Mercifully, Shadwell and his bumbling young charge were gone when he returned to the house. Anathema relayed several pieces of information about the subpanels and circuits and different gauges of wiring that he didn't understand. He nodded along, processing only the fact that the Switchfinder Army had already charged him and that the disaster duo would be back next week for more.

He set the wine aside, then flopped down on the sofa. Anathema was chewing her pen, a forlorn look in her eyes.

“Why so glum?” he asked. “No more progress on the mysterious and annoying prophecies of Agnes Nutter?”

She groaned and set aside her glasses. “No. I thought I was onto something but it just keeps slipping away. It’s the great fall all over again.”

“What?”

“One of the prophecies references a great fall.” He nodded, carefully keeping his face neutral. “One side of the family thinks it means an airplane crash. Something about falling out of the sky and time travel, maybe. My mom thinks they’ve been watching too many reruns of _Lost_.”

“Um,” Crowley said.

“And that obviously didn’t happen since I’m here now, and I can’t figure anything out and I’m not sure who I’m supposed to meet. I think it’s him, but I’m not sure. But I want it to be him and what if that’s clouding my judgment? And-”

“Woah there,” Crowley said, holding up his hands. “Slow down, champ.”

Anathema took a breath. Her lower lip was trembling and she looked like she might cry. She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. Suddenly, he remembered how young she was, and how far away from her ordinary life she’d traveled to get here.

“Hey,” he said, “it’s, uh, going to be okay.” He winced, sure he sounded entirely unconvincing. But she just sighed. The silence in the foyer stretched with the shadows growing longer on the wall. A thought occurred to him then.

“Wait. You said your family thought your plane would crash.”

She nodded, still not looking at him.

“And they sent you out here anyway?” She nodded again. He felt a hot rush of anger rising from his chest up to his face. It was an old anger, one he hadn’t felt in a very long time. The words came out of his mouth in a low growl. “Tell me you know how fucked-up that is?”

She looked away, a flush rising on her own face. “I know,” she said quietly.

“Book girl.”

“Anathema!” she yelled, finally looking at him. Tears were gathering in her eyes and he was surprised to feel them behind his own eyes, too. 

Crowley took a deep breath. Neither of them spoke for a long, charged, minute.

“Your family doesn’t always do what’s right for you. They don’t always-” he stopped, pursing his lips. She looked at him like she was falling. He saw the fear in her eyes and he knew it. He'd lived it. He'd been younger than she was when he realized he couldn't depend on family to do anything other than give him a name. He tried to soften his voice but it didn't work. He couldn't keep the spite out of it. “A family like that hurts more than they help.”

“I thought you didn’t need family,” she shot back.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know what a family _should_ be,” he responded in what he knew was a nasty tone. 

Another standoff was only averted by the sudden appearance of Aziraphale, next to Crowley on the sofa. 

“Fuck!” he said, then added, “sorry.”

Aziraphale lightly patted his knee. His hand went all the way through Crowley’s thigh to the sofa underneath, but he appreciated the gesture anyway.

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asked, glancing back and forth between them.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Anathema said wearily. Changing the subject, she said, “I’m supposed to meet someone, while I’m here. Someone significant to my future. I’m trying to figure out who it is.”

“Do you think that someone is the young man with the velocipede?” Aziraphale asked.

“It was a unicycle, angel.”

“I don’t know,” Anathema said, ignoring Crowley altogether. “It might be.”

“If you want him, go get him, then,” Crowley said. “Look, book girl- Anathema-” He paused, running a hand through his still-too-short hair. He was becoming agitated again and wasn’t sure why. “Fuck the prophecies, listen to your head. Or, you know-” he wagged his eyebrows and gestured vaguely toward Anathema’s billowing skirts. The lad had been handsome, after all.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, chastizing. As if he was one to talk.

“What I’m saying is, your family knows a part of you, yeah. They know who you were, as a little girl growing up wanting to be a witch. But only you know who you are now and what you want. If concussion-man is who you want, go after him and grab him. Hold on to that skinny little arse and don’t let it get away.”

Anathema frowned, either at his continued use of “concussion-man” to describe her potential date, or what he’d said about going after her own desires.

“Might I suggest a bit of caution?” Aziraphale interjected. He looked from Crowley to Anathema and back. “You don’t know the young man and you’ve only just arrived. You’re not even sure you’ll be staying here permanently, and what if-” He stopped, suddenly turning away from them both. 

Anathema stood.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but Crowley’s right. And Agnes might be right, too. I’m calling him.” She pulled a phone out of one of the many pockets in her dress and bounded up the stairs to her room. “Don’t wait up,” she shouted down at them.

“Well that was a thing,” Crowley muttered.

“Indeed. Would you like some tea, dear? I’m sure you have work to catch up on.” Aziraphale floated into the kitchen before he could answer. He hadn’t met Crowley’s eyes.

* * *

Crowley heard the front door bang open, and a rush of giggles and footsteps entering the foyer. Book girl had returned, with her man in tow. The sound of footsteps meandered up the stairs, whispers and heated breaths joining the sound of their ascent. 

_Oh_. Okay, then. Good for her.

Crowley focused on his inbox, currently hovering at 95 unread messages. He answered two, then ran a weary hand over his eyes. Night had fallen swiftly on Abaddon Cottage. He hadn’t noticed the growing darkness until he was surrounded by it, sitting in an empty room surrounded by furniture that held no bodies. When he’d first arrived, he’d thought of a ghostly book club, sipping tea and discussing tales of dead men. He hadn’t been far off.

Shutting his laptop and retrieving his phone, Crowley made his way upstairs in the dark by feeling along the staircase. He paused on the second-floor landing. The hallway was as dark as the rest of the house, and the door to Anathema’s room was shut tight. From within, Crowley could hear the movement of bodies shifting about on the old, creaky bed.

Anathema’s voice was muffled by the layers of drywall and peeling wallpaper that separated him from the activity in the bedroom. But she didn’t need to be saying actual words, nor did Newt, for Crowley to know what was happening on the other side of the door.

“Good for her,” he muttered, continuing upstairs. The third floor was thick with silence.

He undressed and climbed into his own old, creaky bed. The mattress coils stayed silent under the slight weight of him and him alone. Crowley stared at the ceiling, willing sleep to come and sweep away his thoughts.

The chair next to the bed stayed empty. Somehow, Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn’t be coming tonight. The thought made him ache with a sadness that felt different than the one that had taken up residence in his body long ago. His permanent aching loneliness was diffused, a full-body despair. This was sharper. Aziraphale’s absence was a pain he felt between his ribs as if an invisible knife had been plunged in his breast and remained there.

The sound of Crowley’s heartbeats were joined by a rhythmic thump, thump, thump. His body tensed, senses alert and ready to fight— 

“Oh, _yes_!”

Thump, thump, thump.

Crowley’s body unclenched and the knife between his ribs twisted. As the bed in the room below him shook, banging against the wall, he felt tears pricking at his eyes. Why? _Good for her_ , he’d said. _If you want him, go get him_ , he’d said. So why was the sound of them together pulling him into despair?

But, of course, he knew why. 

He wanted what they had. It was the saddest version of _When Harry Met Sally_. I'll have what she's having, but I'll have it with a man who died while King George was still fussing over tea and taxes. The thumping of the bed against the wall in the rose room grew steadily faster. He could hear a muffled moaning, both his and hers. The silence in his room was deafening, broken only by the bumping of the bed below and the sounds of pleasure, filtered through the house’s walls.

Crowley breathed slowly, willing his heart to slow with his lungs. He wasn’t hard and he didn’t want to be. Instead, his chest felt like it was caving in, like the sound of the sex downstairs was sucking all the air out of the house, leaving none for him. Crowley screwed his eyes shut, willing out the sounds, willing out the feelings.

Anathema cried out in pleasure, unable to hold back, and it cracked open his chest, revealing the gaping chasm of need inside. _He_ wanted to make those noises, wanted to grip the sheets, wanted to feel the mattress shake under him as— 

Crowley was out of bed, down the stairs, and pulling on his shoes before the thought could fully form.

His breath punched out of his chest as he hurried away from the house and its busy occupants. He walked along the path circling the island with no destination in mind. The starless darkness of the night was sporadically broken by blinking buoys, like red eyes winking at him from afar. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shivered as he walked along the empty beach. The night was cold, and Crowley had fled the house wearing only a thin vest and jeans.

He stopped at a patch of dark rocks, his movement stilled by some invisible force. Straight ahead of him, a shining beacon of white in the dark water, was Aziraphale.

Crowley rushed forward.

“Aziraphale?” he called out to the translucent figure. He couldn’t make out the ghost’s features but the shape of him was familiar. Seeing it tugged at the knife in his heart. Seeing him, here, felt wrong. Like he was being shown a part of Aziraphale he kept hidden away, close to his own insubstantial heart.

Crowley walked as far as he could onto the black rocks of the shoreline without breaching the water. He’d worn his thin black slip-on shoes. They were meant for stylish lounging about the house, not clamoring around a midnight-dark beach full of jagged rocks and the icy cold water of the Great Lakes.

The figure turned.

Aziraphale’s face was drawn and sad, the thin line of his mouth holding no hint of a curve. The laughing, teasing, plump lips that Crowley longed to see lift into a smile were instead pressed together painfully tight. They were as white as his face and hair. His joyful glow had been replaced by the haunted look of a tortured soul.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, plunging into the water. The shock of the cold registered in his mind but it was pushed aside by his immediate concern—Aziraphale.

The ghost didn’t seem to see or hear him.

“Are you here? Aziraphale!” Crowley splashed forward, his shoes filling with water and threatening to slip off his feet. The water was up to his knees now. His feet slipped over the algae-covered rocks on the lake’s floor. He threw his arms up for balance, wildly flapping them about in the cool night air.

Ahead, Aziraphale stood in the lake, waist-deep. He didn’t respond.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled again. What was he doing out here? Was it really him? “ _Angel_!”

As Crowley raced toward him, Aziraphale turned back. The tails of his white coat floated on the lake’s surface, dragging behind him like a sodden wedding train. Aziraphale sank deeper into the dark water and Crowley knew he wouldn’t be able to reach him before his white curls went under.

“ _Aziraphale_!” Crowley’s voice broke. It became a grinding, desperate thing, clawing at the walls of his throat. His scream broke free, then dissolved into the susurrus of gentle waves lapping at the shore.

Crowley stood, defeated, while the sting of the cold night air pricked his skin.

“Angel,” he whispered one last time, knowing he’d receive no answer.

When the numbness in his feet turned painful, Crowley carefully waded back to land. He stood for one last moment on the shore, looking out at the empty water. There was no sign of Aziraphale. No ghostly white coat swirling around his body. No pale blue eyes staring at him in horror. No open mouth, gasping. Just the dark lake, endlessly swelling to meet the edge of the night sky.

* * *

All the rooms in Abaddon Cottage were silent when he returned.

Crowley left his ruined shoes by the door. He dripped all the way up the stairs, leaving a dark trail of lake water in his wake.

He threw his soggy clothes towards the bathroom sink, not caring where they landed. Crowley moved automatically, his mind disconnected from the sensations of his body. He shouldn’t warm up too quickly or he might go into shock, he thought, registering the first aid tip from some half-remembered childhood lesson. He set the thought aside.

Crowley sank into bed and closed his eyes. Exhaustion washed over him, then, once his body was prone and warm. Crowley let himself fall into it, welcoming the escape of sleep and hoping not to dream.

Before he could slip into unconsciousness, the scent of the lakes returned.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, “are you here?”

The ghost appeared slowly, phasing into solidity like he was waking from an invisible sleep. Aziraphale sat in his chair next to the bed, looking down on Crowley with a sad, soft smile on his face. 

His clothes were dry. 

He shimmered in the darkness, lighting up the room with a faint glow. Aziraphale said, “I'm here, dearest.”

Crowley swallowed his reply. He twisted the sheets in his hands and let himself fall apart. _Dearest_. How could he be anyone's dearest? How could he be _Aziraphale's_ when his body kept slipping from Crowley's grasp?

He wanted—

The words died in his throat. Crowley fought the ache in his chest, the stabbing pain that had pulled him into the water toward Aziraphale’s memory.

He said, “Will you stay, angel? Read a book if you like.” Crowley reached out his hand, hovering it in the air between them, palm out. He reached for Aziraphale, saying what he needed not with words, but with the grasping of his fingers. “The light won’t bother me. Just stay.”

Aziraphale’s ethereal glow made his eyes shine in the dark room as he looked down at Crowley. Slowly, he reached out with his own ghostly hand. Their palms didn’t touch. But Crowley felt the shimmering, pulsing energy of him from the proximity. When their hands finally overlapped, he felt the coolness of Aziraphale’s essence lightly kissing his skin.

“We've gotten ourselves into a predicament,” Aziraphale said softly. “Haven't we, Crowley?”

Crowley curled his fingers instinctively, clinging to a hand that could never hold him back. “Yeah, angel, we have.”


	8. I had a nightmare nothing could be put back together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say except sorry (not sorry)! I <3 you all but please don't worry - everyone will be fine.

Abaddon Cottage, perhaps unused to a trio of occupants that included two living ones, rebelled. 

The stove broke. Aziraphale, unable to provide food for Crowley and Anathema, wandered about the house without legs, seeming lost in his own home. Then the sewer line backed up, which made Anathema go to Newt’s house for showers and forced Crowley to add a plumber to the growing list of charges on his credit cards. Crowley scrubbed the kitchen and paid for a cleaning service to do the rest of the house. It responded during a brief thunderstorm by springing a leak in the roof directly over Crowley’s bed. 

His days were spent calling contractors and repair services, scrubbing and grumbling, and frantically checking his bank account. 

(His nights were for Aziraphale. 

Feeling the presence above him sent shivers down his spine and he closed his eyes, imagining the fingers trailing across his skin were solid. Aziraphale coaxed him to hardness with whispered words and ghostly touches. He drove Crowley wild, always watching with blue eyes that shined so bright in the dark.)

Crowley woke early to attend conference calls on London time. He slipped downstairs before the pink fingers of dawn rose above the lake and bathed the front of the house in a rosy glow. He walked around the cottage saying “Can you hear me now?” while Aziraphale watched from his wingback chair in the den, swinging insubstantial slipper-clad feet to and fro. 

Beez sent him a new client. The work kept him on the payroll but gave him headaches from staring at a bright laptop screen in the dim sitting room for hours on end. Aziraphale kept him supplied with coffee and cocoa, in an endless series of angel-wing mugs. Crowley wasn’t sure if he kept washing the same one or if they multiplied like rabbits in his somehow still-dusty cupboard.

(At midnight he’d shut down the laptop. He’d skip up the stairs to the third-floor bedroom, his heart full of longing and lust, barely sated by his own hand and the hint of a touch from a ghost.

Crowley was gripping the headboard with both hands, as requested, his legs spread wide. Aziraphale hovered over him, smiling. He couldn’t touch. God, how he _wanted_ to touch. Crowley bucked his hips, searching for contact, for friction, for _something_. Aziraphale just smiled down at him, an angel teasing him with the ghostly remnant of ecstasy, never quite granted. 

After dark, Crowley let go completely, his ego having disappeared with the light. His hands ached from gripping the wood above his head but he didn’t dare move. 

_Stay, just like that, dearest, won’t you?_

He whimpered as Aziraphale stroked a hand down his chest, the sensation like an ice cube just barely touching his skin. Aziraphale twirled his finger around Crowley’s nipple and chuckled at the desperate sound that escaped his throat. Aziraphale’s barely-there hand dipped lower, ghosting over the gooseflesh on his inner thighs. He was so hard, leaking onto the shivering skin of his stomach, but Crowley didn’t touch. Not yet. 

Aziraphale spoke softly at night. His voice held promises and secrets. He teased Crowley with tantalizing tidbits of fantasy. 

_Just hold on a little longer, darling._

Crowley obeyed, letting Aziraphale paint a picture with words spoken from plump lips he longed to kiss. Aziraphale touched him everywhere but his hands slipped through the invisible barrier that separated them, gliding over the surface of Crowley’s body but never touching, sending him to the edge of madness. 

_You’re doing so well waiting for me, Crowley._

He cupped Crowley’s cheek with one insubstantial hand, slipping a finger over Crowley’s lips. Crowley parted them, longing to taste the salt off his skin. 

_If only I had a body, it would be yours to claim. And yours would be mine._

Aziraphale reached for the little bottle of lube on the nightstand. His eyes never left Crowley’s as he popped the cap. Crowley bit his lip and waited. Aziraphale squeezed a few drops directly onto him, gently holding the bottle above Crowley’s aching cock. He hissed as the cold droplets met his skin, dripping down his shaft. But still, he didn’t move. Finally, eyes shining in the dark, Aziraphale released his hands with a word. _Now_. 

Crowley gave himself over to the wave that crested every night with a whisper.

_Come for me, darling._ )

Mornings were for shy smiles and fingers not touching over steaming mugs. Crowley sat at the kitchen table placing orders for home goods. He carefully discarded old bedding, linens, and small appliances, screening them for sentimental items Aziraphale couldn’t let go of or antiques Anathema wanted to keep.

Newt became a fixture at the house. He helped Crowley clear the debris from the side yard and figured out early on that small-talk was not a requirement of his presence. Though he broke as many things as he fixed, Crowley found himself grateful for the lad’s awkward smile and stupid jokes. Anathema made them lemonade and the smiles they shared sent Crowley scurrying for the edge of the yard.

His life split.

Daytime on the island was baffling and stressful. The house, once so musty and old, now smelled of cleaning solution and Aziraphale’s cooking. The lights worked. The stairs still creaked and the wallpaper peeled and the dust never, ever, went away no matter how hard he tried. Gabriel, the obnoxious developer intent on stripping his house of its flesh, found his phone number somehow. He called or texted twice per day, leaving him cheery messages that bordered on threats.

But nights, in the old room at the top of the stairs, were sacred. They felt separate from the everyday concerns of the waking world. He'd thought of Aziraphale as a lighthouse, a steady unchanging presence defying the march of time. His glowing light guided Crowley, and on these nights, when his breath came shallow and fast as Aziraphale coaxed him through agony and ecstasy—on these nights, he found the shore.

\--

“Agnes was an awful speller,” Anathema said. She held a piece of toast in the air, distracted. Crumbs were getting all over the family book she took with her everywhere. The page she'd opened was full of Agnes’s prophecies, on which she’d scribbled notes all over the margins.

“That's true, yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “She constantly mixed up her besom with her bosom. Terribly inconvenient for a witch.”

Anathema raised an eyebrow.

“Occultist. Herbalist?” Aziraphale waved his hand and returned to the dishes in the sink with a shrug.

Crowley read the _Town Crier_ for a few moments in silence. The front page was full of details about the Mackinac Astronomical Society's plans for tomorrow night's lunar eclipse viewing party at the site of the old Mackinac fort. Suddenly, Anathema dropped her toast.

“Holy shit!” she said loudly, peering at the book.

Crowley and Aziraphale said, “Language,” at the same time, then met each other’s eyes. They shared a smile, and Crowley cleared his throat.

“What’s up over there? Does Agnes predict a freak thunderstorm? Do I need to close the windows?”

“No,” Anathema said, chewing her lip. “But I need to do some research. There’s a medium on the island I haven’t met yet and she might have some insight into this.”

“Tracy!” Aziraphale sat down at the table, excitement in his eyes. He wrapped his hands around a mug of tea that was no longer steaming. He brought it to his nose and inhaled the scent anyway, seeming to find comfort in the aroma. “I’m sure she’ll be ever so happy to meet you, dear. Do tell her I said hello.”

“Okay,” Anathema said, distracted by whatever she’d been scribbling. She paused, then fixed Crowley with an intense look. “Meet me for lunch.” 

It wasn’t a question.

“Umm,” said Crowley.

“At the fish ‘n chips place. One o’clock.” She slammed the book shut and got up to leave.

“No, I cannot go to _The Codfather_. I’ll have to renounce my citizenship and apologize to every British ancestor on all sides of our family if I step foot in that place, let alone eat a chip.”

Anathema rolled her eyes so hard Crowley wondered how they stayed in her head. “You’ll be fine. One o’clock. Bye!” She left, swishing her skirts aggressively. 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, looking entirely too amused before he faded from view. “Well, my dear, as you would say, that was a thing.” 

He was gone before Crowley could mock him. Alone in the kitchen, Crowley held out his hands in a gesture to the house, willing it to understand his plight. It didn’t respond.

\--

Crowley left his sunglasses on as he stepped inside the greasy spoon, hoping in vain that hiding behind them would mean no one would recognize him and his visit didn’t count. Anathema spotted him immediately and waved him over. She pushed a basket of fried cod and what the island passed off as chips at him.

“Here. We have a lot to go over.” Anathema wiped her greasy hands on a napkin and added it to a large pile next to her plate.

He regarded the basket with suspicion. “What’s with the subterfuge, anyway?”

“Read this.” She handed him a spiral-bound notebook. On it she’d copied passages from Agnes’s prophecies and scribbled notes all over the margins. She’d also drawn little hearts and flowers in several places, which he tried very hard not to find endearing. He shoved a chip in his mouth and started reading.

_“An angel shall break his great fall; no future’s divination to enthrall._   
_On a great beast he flies, to find the wayward fly, place a call._   
_When the moon drips into the sea, the garden’s guardian leaves his post._   
_To unite the two, two plus two for whom love proves most._   
_A corporal he was not, but corporal he shall be._   
_Join hands and summon thy courage, Anathema in place of me._   
_A barren garden bears new buds for Jack and Lil will play._   
_Gardens bleak past to gardens gay._   
_What the sea took the sea returns, till no more blood remains._   
_Summon him here to see, then return to the sea._   
_For the precise words, see page fifty three.”_

“Shitty poem,” Crowley said, pushing his sunglasses onto his forehead and squinting at the handwriting. He put down the notebook and grabbed another chip, drenching it in vinegar. “I guess it rhymes, sortof. Who are Jack and Lil?”

“I have no idea. But on page fifty-three, there’s a summoning spell. It’s been in my family book for longer than any of the living relatives know. They all ignored it, because whenever anyone tried it, nothing happened.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And, nothing happened because _they_ weren’t supposed to use it. _We_ are.” She sat back, seeming to recede into the back of the overstuffed booth. “The spell summons Aziraphale!”

“You don’t need a spell to summon Aziraphale,” Crowley said, letting his incredulity leak out into his voice. He ate another chip, deluded into believing it might suddenly be tastier than the first two. “Just walk in the door and say ‘Hey Aziraphale.’ He’ll come right out if he’s around.”

Anathema rolled her eyes again. “Not Aziraphale the ghost. We’re summoning Aziraphale himself. Returning him to his body.”

His stomach dropped. The chips he’d eaten felt like heavy pieces of greasy garbage sitting in his belly, gathering stress. _If only I had a body, it would be yours to claim._

“She meant _corporeal_ , not corporal. Agnes was either a terrible speller or she was trying to be clever, I can’t tell. ‘What the sea took, the sea returns’ means him. What the sea took is him, because he drowned, obviously.”

Crowley sniffed. “Obviously.”

“And ‘what the sea returns’ is also him, but corporeal. In a body. For the duration of the blood moon, he’ll be returned. It’s only one night, but it brings him here.”

“And why would we want to bring him here?” he asked. His face was burning. Crowley resisted the urge to put his sunglasses back on.

The look Anathema gave him was a textbook withering stare. “Oh come on, Crowley. I know there’s something going on between the two of you.”

He made a face. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You cannot seriously be denying the chemistry between you and Aziraphale. It’s like, ridiculous, to be honest.”

He sniffed and looked away, knowing it did nothing to hide the flush that crawled down his neck. “Aziraphale’s a flirt. That’s all.”

“Yes, he is. But he certainly doesn’t flirt with me,” she said. Anathema folded her hands and put her chin on them. She looked smug. “And Abaddon Cottage has very thin walls.”

He looked right back at her. “Yes, _it does_.”

She blushed but didn’t look away. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me there’s absolutely nothing between the two of you, I’ll put the book away and never mention it again.”

He ground his teeth. His face was burning and the sour taste of shitty chips had taken over his mouth. He breathed in and out a few times, unable to bring himself to lie to her while simultaneously unwilling to believe there was really a chance to be with Aziraphale. Aziraphale was dead. Only a fool would love a dead man.

Anathema sat back, reading a change in his expression. “You want him,” she said, softly this time. “This is your chance to be with him, even if it’s just one night.”

“And then what?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Agnes doesn’t say. He’ll go back to being a ghost, probably.”

“Probably?” Crowley’s voice pitched higher than he intended. He took a gulp of water to steady himself but it went down wrong. “No. That’s not good enough.”

“It’s not up to you! I wanted to talk to you about it first but we have to ask Aziraphale what he wants to do.”

Crowley scowled. “This is ridiculous. I don't know why I'm even still talking to you.” He pushed the red basket of soggy chips aside and folded his arms.

“Crowley, this is the only chance you’re going to get to be with him! The next lunar eclipse isn’t for another ten months. Don't you want to be with him if you can?”

“I can’t be with him because he’s dead. And I’m leaving.” He wasn’t sure if he meant he was leaving the restaurant or the island altogether.

“But Agnes said-”

“Agnes is dead, too! And nothing she wrote in her little book can change that.” Crowley stood up. He put a handful of bills on the table, still not entirely sure of the exchange rate and unwilling to stand around figuring it out while his heart was trying to pass through his ribs and out through the thin boundary of his flimsy black t-shirt. 

Anathema matched his scowl and added a trembling lower lip, too. “What did they do to you?” she asked.

“What?”

“You give me shit all the time about my family controlling my life but your family does the same thing.”

“I don't have a family,” he shot back. It was an automatic reply at this point. The hurt from the truth of those words had faded but he spit them out with venom on his tongue out of habit.

“Yes, you do,” she insisted. “They might be dead or gone, but their effect on you isn't. Whatever they did to make you pull away from everyone- it controls you just like my family's book controls me. At least I'm honest about it.”

Crowley sat back down.

They stared at each other for a minute in a silent battle of wills. Crowley wasn’t even entirely sure what they were battling over but she made a formidable opponent. The waitress, unable to tell if the stormy silence between them meant they were leaving or they needed a drink refill, stopped by and gave them one.

Finally, he sighed. “How does it work?”

She described the ritual, using a bunch of words he vaguely recognized from horror movies. He half-listened, watching as Anathema grew even more animated and confident as she spoke. She pointed to sections of the book that described symbols and ingredients for potions, explaining and making notes to herself. Anathema was young, but when she got going, she projected a confidence he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt himself. He’d undercut her insistence that she was supposed to do this and that at every turn, but maybe knowing that she had a family watching her was what gave her the confidence to do what she felt was right.

“I don’t know if I can get henbane by tomorrow. It’s poisonous and not native to Michigan. Obviously, I could order it online but delivery by the beginning of the eclipse would be tough.”

“Obviously,” he repeated, feeling completely out of his depth.

After a few more minutes of muttering, she seemed to remember Crowley was there and still needed convincing.

“You’ll ask him, then?” Her face was hopeful and vibrant. How could such an excitable, ambitious girl—woman—be related to a miserable sack of anxiety like him?

He hung his head, touching chin to chest. _If only I had a body, it would be yours to claim. And yours would be mine._

“I’ll ask him.”

They left the chippy and found the midday sun shining brightly on Mackinac Island’s main street. He held the door open for Anathema and she hugged the giant leather-bound book tightly to her chest.

“What do you get out of this, anyway? What’s in it for you?”

She faced him. “I think I’m supposed to do this. I’m supposed to be here and I’m supposed to have found you. And Aziraphale.”

He tried to interrupt but she held him off with a raised hand.

“And I _want_ to do this. Both things can be true,” she said. “I was supposed to come here and do this but I also want to.” She looked beyond him to the rest of main street. Around them, children played in the street, dodging horses and bicycles. Tourists in floppy hats strolled through the shops, licking fudge off their faces. The planter boxes and hanging baskets full of flowers were fading with the end of summer but their fragrance still leaked into the air, mingling with the smell of horses and sweat and the ever-present breeze off the lakes.

“I like it here.”

He cocked his head to the side, not needing to say his question out loud.

“Yeah, it’s weird. It’s full of tourists and nostalgia for an America that never existed in the first place. The food isn’t good and you can’t get two-day shipping. There’s ghosts here. And the people who come to soak in the sunshine conveniently ignore the fact that they’re all white and the people who work here aren’t. That sucks. The pretty flowers gloss over some really ugly history.” She pursed her lips, putting her hands on her hips. She faced him squarely, her skirts swishing in the breeze. “But I found Newt. And the house. It’s weird and old but I love it. I’m supposed to be here and I want to be here. You want to be with him, I can tell. So figure out what you’re supposed to do. I’ll see you later.”

She turned and headed down a side street towards Jasmine Way, leaving him standing on the pavement, surrounded by people and utterly alone.

\--

“Angel? Are you here?” Crowley strode through the house, looking for Aziraphale. He found him on the back porch, sitting with his legs neatly crossed, reading a book.

“Hello, dear. How was your lunch?”

“It was-” He was going to say great. Fine. _Nothing out of the ordinary, only I might get a chance to be with you and all of a sudden it's the only thing I can think about._ “Weird.”

“Weird? How so.” Aziraphale marked his place with a ribbon and set down the book.

Crowley sat down next to him. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the longest strands at the back.

“There's a spell. A ritual.”

“Oh? And what does it do?”

Crowley took a very deep breath. “It would bring you back, angel.”

He just looked confused. 

“It would, somehow, summon you back, in a body. Your body. Agnes said-”

“Agnes said a great many things, dear,” Aziraphale said carefully.

“Yeah. But she predicted this, Aziraphale.” Crowley stood up and paced the length of the patio. He was unable to sit still, brimming with a nervous energy. It felt like the edge of an oncoming storm. He leaned against the railing and faced Aziraphale, still seated at the table with his hands neatly folded. “I don't know how but she wrote about you and me. How I fell in the hall and you caught me.”

“Crowley, I-

“Angel, listen, there's a chance we could be together. It would only be one night, but-”

“No.”

“What?”

Aziraphale stood. He floated through the table and approached. Crowley was too stunned to do anything but watch as he stood beside him looking out at the dilapidated garden. “I don't know why Anathema has gotten your hopes up with these cruel so-called prophecies but they simply aren't true. I'm dead and that's the end of the story.”

“What if it's not?”

“It is. It has to be, Crowley.”

“But if there's a chance it might work, angel, I-”

“Even if there were, I wouldn't take it.” Aziraphale shook his head sadly.

“But-”

“No. I can't rush into something like this, especially not knowing the risk to you. I can't have you taking part in something that might be dangerous.” He finally met Crowley's eyes and the misguided determination to protect him was plain in his expression.

“Even if it might bring you back?” Crowley asked. He wasn't begging. He was desperate for Aziraphale to see what they could have, what he was giving up by not even trying the ritual. He was- okay, he was begging. “We could have tea at the Grand. Or go on a picnic.”

Aziraphale shimmered for a moment, like he needed to buffer.

“I don’t have two hundred years, angel. If I did-”

“If you did, what? You cannot know what it’s like to be a remnant of a bygone era, Crowley, so please don’t presume to tell me how you’d do it better.”

“That’s not- I’m saying that if I had two hundred years to wait for you, I would. I would wait until this house rots into the soil and the lake rises up to swallow this ridiculous island and it takes all the expensive property with it. Or maybe I’ve got it backwards and global warming’ll dry up the damn lakes, leaving us in the middle of Canada, I don’t fucking know.” Crowley pushed off the railing and stalked to the edge of the patio. He kicked at a rake Newt had left lying on the ground. The edge stabbed into the thin layer of his boot, stubbing his toe. Crowley muttered a string of not-quite curses under his breath and stalked back to Aziraphale.

He was looking out at the garden with a look of such sadness on his face that it deflated the bubble of anger in him. He hadn't bothered to scold Crowley for his language.

“I don’t have time, angel. I have to live like I have an expiration date, because I do.”

“And you don’t seem to understand that I have to do the same, Crowley.”

“That’s what-”

“You see, don’t you? That this, whatever this is, it’s fleeting.” Aziraphale gestured to the garden, as if they were talking about how many zucchini plants they should put in next year.

“It’s not! Angel, it’s not. I don’t know what it is! I know it’s not normal to become friends with a ghost.”

“Friends?” He turned to face Crowley, exasperated. “We’re not _friends_ , Crowley. I'm not supposed to-”

“Not supposed to what? Is there a rule book for ghosts I'm not aware of?”

“Don't scoff, Crowley. I've gotten close to people before. Those who seem to be able to accept me without-”

“Losing their shit?”

“Losing their shit, yes.”

“But then they grow. And they leave. Or they take ill.”

“Oh, angel-”

“And there's nothing I can do. I cannot soothe you if you have a fever, Crowley. I cannot place a cool cloth on your brow and stroke your face to take your body’s fire into mine. I cannot hold your hand to ease your pain. I can only watch as you slip further away from me.” Aziraphale looked away. His lower lip trembled and Crowley wanted to soothe away the sadness in his eyes. His body ached with the lack of Aziraphale in his arms. 

“Angel, we're connected. Even if it's not physical, there's something-”

“No! I'm sorry Crowley but we're not. We can't be. I'm on one side of life's curtain and you are on the other.

“It doesn't matter-”

“It does!” They were both shouting now, both voices taking on an edge of desperation. “We're on opposite sides of life and death, and I-”

“We’re on our side.”

“Not anymore. It’s over.”

Crowley and Aziraphale stared at each other for a long, charged moment. The tears behind Aziraphale's eyes never fell and the rage Crowley had felt bubbled to the surface again.

“Well then, fine,” he said at last. His voice got low and nasty. He let it. He _savored_ it. ”I'll sell the place to Gabriel. He'll strip it of everything that makes it interesting and flip it to some politician for a summer house. And when I'm back at home in London, I won't even _think_ about you.”

Crowley waved his hand and twirled dramatically, heading for the kitchen door. He didn't need this. This wasn't his life, anyway. His hand was on the doorknob when Aziraphale spoke.

“Is it?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“Home.”

Crowley didn't answer. He slammed the kitchen door and the front door as he left and didn't look back to see if his ghost appeared in the window.

\--

Mrs. Young was working the till at the market. She texted Adam right away with a smile, only too happy to help the lonely newcomer with devastation in his eyes. Adam pedaled his bike slowly while Crowley walked beside him, hands shoved in his pockets. He didn’t speak and Adam didn’t ask.

When they got to the stables, Adam showed him a handful of horses in stalls. More were milling about the yard, munching on grass or gazing out at nothing. Crowley couldn’t feel a thing. He recognized Dog the horse in one of the stalls. Dog plodded over to the gate and pushed his nose into Crowley’s shoulder. He didn’t move.

“That one,” he said, pointing to the biggest, blackest, shiniest horse in the stable. It was the most beautiful, terrifying animal he’d ever seen. He met her shiny black eyes and she tossed her head. She snorted and nodded to him.

“Not that one,” Adam said, frowning. “Bentley is way too intense for a novice rider.”

“Fine. Just give me one of these and let me go,” said Crowley, exasperated. “Look, I need to get out and clear my head.” He gave Adam a meaningful look. “Let me give one of your horses some exercise and do some thinking. Eh?”

“Okay. This one is my sister’s. It’ll probably be okay if you take him out.” Adam led him to a smaller horse. It was also black, but much smaller than the one named Bentley. The horse stamped the ground and snorted, seeming as impatient to go as he was.

The process of fitting him with chaps and saddling the impatient horse took what seemed like ages. Finally, Adam led him to the edge of the paddock and said, “I’ll go get Dog and I’ll ride behind you.”

“I don’t need a chaperone.”

“You do, though.” Adam furrowed his not-quite-teenaged brow. “I won’t follow too close but if you fall-”

“I won’t!” Crowley said, louder than he intended. “I’ll be fine. Ciao!” He nudged the horse forward with a light kick. It lurched forward, eager to move, then seemed to remember its training. The horse trotted out the gate without much direction from Crowley. It seemed to know how to escape the confines of the ranch on its own and that suited him just fine.

Behind him, he could hear Adam shouting but he didn’t look back. Crowley nudged the horse to go faster, urging him into a trot. It let out a satisfied snort and complied, happily taking him out of town and into the forest.

Crowley figured he'd get the hang of riding by the time he reached the trails that made up the majority of the island’s interior. But as the sound of laughing kids and bicycle horns faded into the dark silence of dense foliage, his nerves remained on edge. The horse's movements jostled him so much his teeth chattered in his jaw. He felt fear rising in his throat and tried to tamp it down.

Ahead, the trail was empty. He rode through the dark forest alone.

The horse waved his head back and forth, swishing its mane. Crowley felt the power of the beast under him and instead of calm, he felt terror. Speed had always soothed him. Driving too fast down lonely country roads gave him a high that spread through his body like honey in his veins. It focused his senses and crowded out his thoughts. This was something else entirely.

His thoughts intruded instead of fading away. He heard Aziraphale’s voice in his head, repeating “it’s over” until the pounding of his heart in his ears matched the timing of the words. Aziraphale’s face had been drawn with sadness, as if he was fighting to speak through tears. But he had still spoken. Crowley didn’t even realize how much hope he’d been holding in his hands until Aziraphale shattered it into pieces.

The horse surged forward without any input from him and Crowley struggled to hang on. Adrenaline spiked in his veins, like a shot of battery acid pumping through him. Crowley gripped the reins tighter but this only urged the horse to go faster. He sped along the narrow trail, branches grabbing at his legs and slashing at Crowley like furious whips. The landscape blurred, becoming a green mass rushing towards him.

“Fuck,” Crowley whispered. He set his mouth in a thin line and held on tightly. Finally, his thoughts narrowed, focusing only on keeping upright.

Ahead of him, the trail curved.

The horse took the turn hard, throwing him to one side. Crowley tried to compensate by shifting his weight but it wasn’t enough. He felt his thighs sliding, felt the force of the horse's motion pushing him out of the saddle. The forest pulled him with invisible hands, grabbing at him and not letting go.

Before he tipped over completely, Crowley shook his foot, hard. He wrenched it from the stirrup. A blaze of pain flared from his ankle. He threw his body forcefully away from the sweating, stinking mass of the horse.

As he fell, Crowley realized several things. He was alone, again, in a savage garden. He felt like he was about to die and the one person he wanted—the one person he _needed_ —didn't need him. Aziraphale wasn't coming. He didn't have a body and he didn't want one. There was no couch to throw under him this time. Aziraphale hadn’t been his guardian angel, after all. His words had been just as empty as he was, just as insubstantial.

Despite all he’d said, Crowley still, even as he toppled to the ground with no one to catch him, wanted Aziraphale.

When he hit the ground, Crowley felt an instant of overwhelming pain, then nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thank you to the fine folks on the Events Discord for the name The Codfather and the other excellent suggestions - they tickled my funny bone like you wouldn't believe!  
> 2) Besom means broom. Bosom... does not.


	9. Oh, would you ease my mind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Just want to thank everyone for reading this story. When I started writing six (!) months ago, I just had an image of Crowley in a spooky house on Mackinac and the vague idea of a Casper-like story. It turned into whatever this is (?!) but I am really enjoying writing something outside my normal brand of silly humorous one-shots.
> 
> 2) A note on tags: I tagged this “Light D/s” and “Gentle Dom Aziraphale” with several sex scenes planned that didn’t end up making it into the fic as the story progressed. That said, there’s a flavor of it running through the previous chapters and I haven’t written chapters 10-12 yet, so I’m leaving the tags as is for now. I may explore the dynamic in a one-shot PWP format set in this universe at a later date.

Posters covered every inch of every wall. Crowley stared at the shapes and colors, recognizing that they existed but not having the underlying information necessary for his brain to turn the images into meaningful patterns. The room smelled like feet and adolescence. The afternoon sunlight was leaking through a pull-down shade over the window, bathing everything in a dusty gray not-quite light.

Crowley woke, blinked a few times, then tried to go back to the darkness of sleep. Muffled voices from outside the room drew him back. 

“Is this Hell?” he asked no one. “Is Hell a teenager’s bedroom?”

The room didn’t answer.

Everything hurt. He wiggled his toes, then his fingers. He drew in a deep breath, then winced at the pain in his chest. He could move but it wasn’t easy or pleasant. What the fuck had happened? He remembered the smell of a beast, the damp forest, then nothing. A lump formed in his throat as his mind rewound further. 

_Not anymore. It's over._

He groaned as he forced himself out of a bed that was too small for him and covered by a Spiderman blanket. When he felt steady enough to stand, he returned the sheets to some kind of order before creeping outside and down the hall. The hallway was dark but the flickering light of a television filtered up from the ground floor.

“Well, hello there, Mr. Crowley,” said a voice from the couch. “How are you feeling?”

Dr. and Mrs. Johnson were cuddled together under a large blanket. Sitting in the armchair off to the side was a preteen engrossed in his phone. He didn't bother to look up as Crowley came down the stairs.

“Like I fell off a horse,” said Crowley. “Did I fall off a horse?

“You did indeed”, Rebecca said. “Let Sam take a look at you.”

“I’m fine. I should go. I’m interrupting your-whatever this is.” He waved his hand at their setup, only now noticing the giant tub of popcorn on the coffee table.

“Just a family movie night.” Dr. Johnson paused the movie and disentangled herself from the blanket. “Ghostbusters. We’ve all seen it three hundred times, no biggie.”

He tried to back away but she caught him in the hallway and pressed a stethoscope to his chest before he could escape. For a few minutes, he let the doctor poke at him. She checked his pulse, reflexes, pupils, and temperature. When she was satisfied he wouldn't keel over, she put her tools back in her doctor's bag and left it on the bottom step.

“You’re going to have a hell of a day tomorrow but other than that, you’re a lucky guy, Mr. Crowley. A sprained ankle, bit of road rash, mild concussion, and a bunch of bruises- this could’ve been much worse.”

He sniffed. “Never been much of a believer in luck.”

“Why don’t you make yourself at home? Just shove Greasy off the couch. I’ll get you a cup of tea. It’s just Lipton but-”

“Thank you, but I should be going.” He tried to inch his way closer to the door.

“Sit down, Mr. Crowley,” she said firmly. “I’m not letting you go back to that old house alone. It won’t be a fun night on the couch, but-”

Crowley cleared his throat. “I’m not- I’m not actually alone. My great-uh, my grand-niece several times removed is there.”

“Oh! How nice! She’s helping you with the house?”

_She wants to take it from me._

“Something like that,” he said. “Oh, shit- I have to call her. What time is it? Where’s my phone?” The panic rushed in all at once. Like he’d been holding anxiety at bay until that moment but it’d been building up behind him and the dam finally burst.

She dug into a purse hanging with another purse and a handful of jackets on a rack by the door. With a rueful look on her face, she handed him his iPhone. The screen was spider-webbed with cracks and the display was dark. “Well, fuck.” He glanced at the sullen teen on the couch. He still hadn't looked up from his phone. “Language, sorry.”

“You can use the landline in the shop.” Dr. Johnson led him across the hall to the makeshift hairdresser’s studio where her wife had cut his hair. It was only a week ago but it felt like eons.

She picked up the receiver of an old plastic corded phone. The buttons lit up and stared at him like happy little eyes waiting to blink. Crowley stared at the phone in her hand, suddenly feeling like his surroundings had gone a little blurred.

“I don’t- I have no idea what her number is,” he said, staring down at the dark screen on his cracked phone. “It’s in my phone.” He felt numb. Like he knew there were things he needed to do but the urgency had been dissolved.

Dr. Johnson put down the phone. She steered him into the barber’s chair by the arm, gently encouraging him to sit. “Yeah,” she said, “we made the gang memorize our landline number in case anything like this happened. You wouldn’t want to be stuck on the other side of the island with no way to get to your loved ones.”

He nodded along. No, you wouldn’t, would you? And yet that’s exactly what he’d done. He’d rushed out of the house, leaving his heart behind, splattered on the floor of the entranceway like that stupid melon he’d dropped so long ago. His body had fallen off a horse but his heart had fallen in the back garden of Abaddon Cottage with the words “it’s over.”

Crowley put his chin to his chest and took a deep breath.

“I have to let him know I’m okay,” he said finally.

“Him?”

“There's- someone else lives at the house, too. Well, lives isn't really-”

Dr. Johnson put her hand on his arm. Instead of making him jump or squirm away like he expected, it just felt like a warm steady presence, grounding him. Like he wouldn't shake apart or fade away as long as she held him there.

“He and I- I thought we could be something. I was wrong.”

She cleared her throat and said, “Please forgive me for quoting a children's television show but the sentiment is genuine. That's rough, buddy.”

He nodded, not sure what she was talking about and not particularly wanting her to elaborate. How do you tell someone you’ve been seeing a ghost but he wants to keep things casual and you want—what _did_ he want? He wanted to be at home, with Aziraphale and a steaming mug of something. He wanted to curl up on the couch with him under a blanket and watch a movie. He wanted to feel Aziraphale’s arms around him, keeping him safe and warm. But Aziraphale didn’t want that. He’d made his position clear.

She said, “I think we have a phone book somewhere. Agnes had a landline so as long as you didn’t disconnect it or trash the phone…?”

He shook his head. He remembered Anathema asking him if the phone in the sitting room had been real. He hadn’t even noticed it, sitting on a little antique side table, but she had. Anathema had seen things in the house that he hadn’t. She’d said she loved it. Maybe the house was rightfully hers, after all.

“Agnes always used to say ‘love and double glazing are the only good things to come out of a telephone,’ but I’m honestly not sure what she meant by that.” Dr. Johnson was rifling through a stack of magazines and bills on a bookcase that also held colorful baskets of curlers, hair product bottles, scrunchies, and bobby pins. She let out a victorious “aha!” when she found the phone book. It was slightly waterlogged and looked ancient. “I knew this would come in handy someday. In fact, I had a conversation with Agnes once…”

“What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” It didn’t look like nothing, but he didn’t press. She flipped through the book, muttering and licking her finger as she turned the page. “Agnes Nutter, witch. She had confidence, that’s for sure.”

Dr. Johnson’s eyebrows knit together as she read aloud from the entry in the phonebook. “There’s a note under her name. It says ‘Dr. J, a house calls to thee. Be frightened not, the spirit comes for crow-’ Huh, it looks like she ran out of space.”

Crowley sighed. “I am so tired of Agnes and her stupid riddles. I just-”

“No one’s answering,” Dr. Johnson said, ignoring him. She had the phone up to her ear, listening to it ring. Crowley had no idea whether Anathema was home or whether Aziraphale would even answer. Outside the cozy atmosphere of the Johnson’s home, night had fallen. He’d been gone for hours.

“Oh, hello,” Dr. Johnson was saying, “no, no he’s okay. Yes, I see. No, he’s here. Yes, he had an accident. He fell off a horse. Yes, he was injured, but-”

Her face twisted in surprise and she held the phone away from her ear. From the receiver, Aziraphale’s voice boomed loud enough for Crowley to hear it.

  
“MADAM, STEP AWAY FROM THE AMECHE, PLEASE!”

And then suddenly he appeared.

Aziraphale’s form oozed from the speaker like a fine mist coming through the wires instead of sound waves. He flickered a few times before settling into his usual shape. When his entire body had made it through, Aziraphale patted the front of his coat a few times, looking down to ensure he hadn’t forgotten any important body parts. He looked the same as he ever did, glowing a little and devastatingly handsome in a stuffy, old-fashioned way. But he looked completely out of place in the wrong home.

Crowley and Dr. Johnson spoke at the same time.

“Angel—”

“What the _fuck_ —”

Before he could explain, Greasy and Rebecca Johnson appeared in the doorway. Rebecca’s hands flew to her lips and she gasped loudly. Greasy held out his phone to snap a picture.

“You’re Adam’s ghost,” he said, unperturbed. The flash on the phone’s camera blinded all of them momentarily. He frowned at the picture, unsatisfied at the lack of photographic evidence that Aziraphale existed. “I guess you’re real, after all.” 

A moment passed in silence, then everyone started talking at once.

“Oh my god-”

“What are you doing here?”

“Did you get murdered?”

“How did you do that? With the phone?”

“Oh my god-”

“Angel, how are you here?”

“Oh my god-”

“Everyone! Please calm down for a moment,” Aziraphale said, in a commanding tone that sent shivers running down Crowley's spine. It wasn't at all the same voice he'd used to coax Crowley into doing what he'd asked at night, while he was alone and begging, but it made Crowley wonder what it would be like to hear it in that context.

“Madam, I assure you I am not here to harm you.” Aziraphale addressed Greasy, who was still trying to see him through his phone camera, presumably for a viral video. “Young one, please stop taking photos of me, they will not come out no matter how hard you try.”

“Now,” he said to Dr. Johnson, “I apologize for—ah, assaulting—your telephone, as it were, but I needed to get here and I'm unable to use traditional modes of transport.”

With the three dumbfounded humans placated for a moment, he turned to Crowley. Aziraphale ran a ghostly hand over his cheek, assessing his injuries and clicking his tongue.

“Crowley, oh my dear, are you alright?”

“I'm fine, angel.”

“Thank goodness! What were you thinking? A _horse_? Crowley, really? First the hallway and now a horse?”

“That's essentially what I said,” Dr. Johnson added.

“Hey!”

“I cannot care for you if you're not in the house, darling,” Aziraphale said. His eyes were full of worry and he kept fluttering his hands. He reached for Crowley several times before remembering the gesture was futile.

“Ew.” Greasy was now clearly texting his friends about the ghost situation, which had become more emotional than expected. Rebecca smacked him in the shoulder.

“You can't care for me in the house, either angel, you said so yourself. I thought you didn't want to.”

“Oh, Crowley, I-”

They were interrupted by a fierce knocking on the front door. Four pairs of human eyes and two ghost ones stared at the door but no one moved. Anathema let herself in.

“Excuse me? Is there a dead man in a bowtie here by any chance?”

After another moment of stunned silence, everyone started talking. This time, Crowley tuned out. Dr. Johnson released him into the care of Anathema, who stamped her foot and scowled at both Crowley and Aziraphale for taking off unexpectedly. She promised to monitor Crowley's condition and text the doctor with regular updates. Aziraphale, after much hand wringing, stepped back into the receiver of the landline like he was boarding a particularly smelly bus. 

On the walk home, Anathema said softly, “So you asked him?”

“Yeah.”

“And he said no.”

“Yeah.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence under a bright silver moon.

* * *

Aziraphale fussed.

He hovered by the edge of the bed, adjusting pillows and tugging at the blanket covering Crowley’s body. His eyebrows pulled together like anxious caterpillars meeting in the center of his forehead when his hand went through Crowley’s shoulder and the quilt slipped from his grasp.

“Angel-”

“Let me get you a cup of tea. Perhaps another blanket?” Three plain cups and an angel-wings mug sat by his elbow, the liquids they contained in various stages of cooling.

“I’m fine, angel.”

“But-”

Crowley reached out, palm up. “I’m fine,” he repeated, waiting for Aziraphale to settle. 

After fretting for a few more seconds, he sat down on his bedside chair and reached back. Aziraphale held his hand just above Crowley’s. Their palms were ships passing each other by, sharing the same water but never meeting.

Aziraphale’s eyes shone in the darkness of the room but it wasn’t his usual happy, twinkling gleam. Despite all he’d put Crowley through, Crowley still wanted to comfort him. He wanted to press kisses to the worried wrinkles on his forehead, even knowing he’d been the one to put them there.

“My dear, I-” Aziraphale started, then paused. He opened his mouth a few times but didn’t seem to know how to start again.

Crowley cleared his throat.

“When I was, oh, I don’t know, maybe six, I got lost in a garden,” he said. Aziraphale looked up, surprise showing on his face. “My parents took me with them to the country. Somewhere in Somerset. We went to this grand old estate for a party thrown by somebody important. It was in a country house, the kind you see in movies. Manicured lawn for days. Butlers and footmen at your elbow, that sort of thing. They had these clipped rosebushes that never went higher than your waist.”

He took a sip from the nearest mug and thought for a moment. This was a story he’d gone over and over in his mind but rarely ever bothered to put to words. The images and feelings were familiar. So familiar sometimes that his mind got stuck in them. The garden pulled him in and didn’t let him go. His mind played the night over and over like a needle, stuck going round and round on the groove of a scratched vinyl.

“At the back of the estate, though, they had hunting lands. Wilderness. The kind of wilds that makes you remember humanity isn’t so far from its roots. I wandered out there and spent hours walking the wild. You could pretend out there that life was different. That none of it existed. None of the manners and the pretend bullshit was-”

Crowley stopped, remembering he had a point to make. The point was...well, the point would come to him if he kept talking. The point was the garden. And him. And Aziraphale, and-

“Anyway. It got dark and I couldn’t find my way back. I thought surely someone will come to find me. There wasn’t much of a moon and I couldn’t see the path. All I saw around every corner were monsters. Thorns tore at my legs and my feet ached from walking. My throat hurt from screaming.”

“What happened, darling?” Aziraphale asked, his voice soft. His palm hadn’t left its place next to Crowley’s.

“Dawn.”

“Crowley-”

“The night passed. Dawn came eventually. And all the monsters, in the light, were just trees. Shrubs. Bushes and vines and growth. Nature, so terrifying in the night, was ordinary in the light.” Crowley took another sip of his tepid tea, then set the cup down on the nightstand. Aziraphale had listened quietly, watching him with eyes full of sadness. He still, even now, wanted to wash that sadness away.

“Crowley-”

“It’s okay, angel,” Crowley said, “it’s okay. I walked back to the estate. I found my way.”

“But your parents, surely they-”

“They were passed out along with the rest of the party. I crept into my mother’s arms and when she woke up, she pushed me away to be sick.”

“My dear boy-”

Crowley shook his head and said, “Don’t. It’s not a sad story, angel. Or yeah, maybe it is. But I learned.” He ran the hand not hovering near Aziraphale’s through his short hair, catching it in a tangle. “I got myself out. I survived and I didn’t need-”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to reply but Crowley cut him off. “Yeah. I see your eyes, angel. You’re trying to pity me. But that’s not the point-”

“Crowley-”

“No, it’s- I said I’d go home and I wouldn’t think about you. But that’s a load of—it’s not true. I need you, angel.” Aziraphale started at the admission. If he’d had lungs to take in air, he’d have gasped. The lack of it broke Crowley open. It drove home the reality that the person he wanted, the person he needed, wasn’t real. But he could be. 

Tears stung Crowley’s eyes and he squeezed them shut. This wasn’t over, not yet. He’d fallen, again, and no one had been there to catch him. But Crowley was starting to realize that falling, and getting up, whether by yourself or because someone carried you, was something he’d missed out on. After the garden, Crowley had lived a life apart, knowing that if he fell or if he were lost, he didn’t need anyone to come after him. This island had proven him wrong three times over. The lesson he’d taken from his savage garden had been a load of shit as big as any of the ones on the streets of Mackinac Island.

“Right,” Crowley said, blinking away tears. “I need to do this thing with you because if I don’t, then none of this is real. And then I’m just-”

“You’re what, Crowley?”

“If I don’t at least try to prove this thing we have is real and that it’s worth something-” he paused, drawing the words to him like summoning a storm, knowing full well the damage it could cause. “Then I’m just like this place, trying to preserve a version of the past that doesn’t exist anymore and maybe never did. Just like you.”

Aziraphale stayed silent. His glow had dimmed as the evening progressed. As if the emotional toll of finding Crowley had worn out his halo. Crowly continued, pinching his eyebrows together and trying desperately to describe the connection he saw so clearly in his mind.

“This place tries so hard to hang on to a perfect America. But it never was! And everyone goes along with it because it’s nice to think about. It’s nice to have horses and flower baskets and pretend you’re better than the rest of the world. It’s easier than admitting the truth, that the time period you’re emulating was a lot more complicated than your quaint gazebos and storefronts would suggest. And I’m doing the same damn thing, going around saying I don’t need anybody.” 

Crowley took a deep breath in before he continued. 

“If I don’t do this with you, I’ll keep being an island that says ‘I don’t need the rest of the world’ while depending on people to keep going, and—”

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s face was so close to his that if he’d had one they’d be sharing a breath. Aziraphale’s lips met his in a ghostly shadow of a kiss. They stayed that way while only Crowley’s heart beat out a rhythm, counting time as it passed for each of them.

When he pulled back, Crowley said, “You get it, though, don’t you? I can’t be this island anymore, angel. I’ll break if I can’t try-”

“I understand.”

“So will you?”

“I-” Aziraphale looked at their hands, so close but not joined. “Every night that I’m with you is but a moment. To you, a night is a night. But to me, the things we’ve shared, the-”

He pursed his lips and Crowley could tell in a different light he’d be blushing. “What we’ve done, together, will one day be a faraway memory. I wish you could see our time together how I see it. It’s so precious to me, my dear, but it’ll be over, and then, I’ll-”

Aziraphale finally met his eyes. “Your life will pass by so quickly. And when you leave this world, it’s—it’ll be over so fast and I'll be alone again. Too fast for me to bear it, Crowley.”

The tears finally fell.

Neither of them spoke for a very long time. Crowley moved to the edge of the bed and patted the space next to him. As he moved closer, Aziraphale’s edges flickered. He lay down next to Crowley, their legs overlapping each other. The cool tingle of it felt familiar now. Comforting. The back of Crowley’s hand didn’t quite touch Aziraphale’s. He felt the singing of his nerves where they longed for contact.

Crowley was drifting toward dreams, when he heard Aziraphale’s low voice whispering, “I feel it when I sorrow most.” 

He turned to face the beautiful ghost in his bed. 

“I don’t think this is what was meant by it,” Aziraphale said, his eyes glowing with feeling. “But that doesn’t make the sentiment any less true. 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

* * *

The next day was worse. Dr. Johnson had been right about that. Even parts of him that he was sure hadn’t hit the ground when he fell off the damned horse hurt. Aziraphale hovered by his elbow all day and supplied him with so much cocoa that he was sure it was running through his veins. Anathema was in and out of the house all day, gathering supplies and muttering under her breath. He understood very little of it but he didn’t miss the withering stares she fixed him with, nor the worried looks she gave him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

“What do I do?”

Tracy took him by the elbow and steered him to the wingback chair in Aziraphale's den.

“Sit right there, love.”

“But what can I _do_?”

Tracy looked at him with kindness and fond exasperation. It was the same look she gave Shadwell but without the flirty flutter of her thick fake eyelashes. She patted his knee and walked away without responding.

Crowley sat.

He watched as Anathema directed the setup. She had a notebook full of scribbles that she consulted, adjusting her glasses and squinting at her own handwriting. Newt and Shadwell moved the furniture in the sitting room out of the way, then removed the large rug that had covered the floor. He was about to tell Anathema to have it cleaned before they replaced it but she had them take it outside where a pickup service had already been scheduled. Anathema checked items off her list brusquely and efficiently. She was good at this.

Under Anathema's direction, Tracy painted a large circle on the floor. She stood with a pop of her knees and a groan. Shadwell held her arm and, mercifully, didn't comment.

Anathema painted smaller symbols within the circle herself, using directions from Agnes's book. Crowley watched, feeling helpless and small. It was like being in a waiting room, waiting for a procedure he couldn't know the outcome of. He both couldn't wait for it and dreaded what was to come.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

“Fuck! Sorry, were you there for a while? I zoned out a bit.”

“I'm here,” Aziraphale said, not quite answering the question Crowley asked.

“What about you? Are you okay, angel?”

“I must confess I'm a bit nervous,” he said, wringing his hands. They both watched the preparations unfold in silence.

A lump formed in Crowley's throat as he watched Anathema boss Newt, Tracy, and Shadwell around. Tracy playfully squeezed Newt's arm when he muscled an antique armchair out of the way, causing him to blush all the way from his hairline to the little puff of hair peeking out of his shirt. Shadwell blustered, spitting out words and phrases that were only loosely connected to understandable English, and was largely ignored by everyone. The house, once so empty and silent, seemed full to the brim with life and laughter. Crowley put his head in his hands, unable to face the onslaught of feelings that washed over him. These people were here for him, not because he'd asked, but because he needed them and they wanted to help.

A cold ghostly hand gently stroked the back of his neck. Where Aziraphale tried to touch him, little tingles lit up the sensitive skin. Crowley remembered feeling exactly this, Aziraphale comforting him the only way he could, the first time he'd been overwhelmed.

“Thanks, angel,” he whispered.

“Of course.”

He dozed off in the chair, with Aziraphale’s cold ghost fingers running through his hair. When he woke, Anathema was gently prodding his knee. Evening had set on Abaddon Cottage. Whatever eerie red light he’d expected to come from the blood moon hadn’t appeared. It was just a normal evening. A normal evening where they’d be summoning a ghost. Right.

“There’s one thing left, I’m afraid,” Anathema said. Her face was crestfallen and he found himself wanting to banish her worries, too. “I wasn’t able to find any henbane. We’re supposed to burn it. I don’t think it’s strictly necessary but-”

“‘S in the garden.” His voice was thick from unexpected sleep.

“What?”

“Henbane. Between the ivy and a really gnarly bush full of thorns. Next year gotta cut that out.” He woke up and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. _Next year._ Would there even _be_ a next year? He didn't know if he'd be here next month. Or next week, even.

“Crowley, henbane is poisonous and would be very difficult to grow here.” Her eyebrows drew together in consternation. “If Agnes…” she trailed off, then didn’t bother to finish. Anathema skipped into the kitchen before heading out to the garden.

Crowley looked up to Aziraphale, who still stood behind his chair with a nervous look on his face.

“Hey, angel,” he said, “if this doesn’t work-”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply.

* * *

The ritual itself didn't take long.

Timing was crucial. Aziraphale was to step into the charged circle exactly at 7:08 p.m., to correspond with nautical twilight. Crowley watched through his fingers as the four humans sat around the circle and closed their eyes. Anathema had smeared a dark red liquid on her face and around the circle on the floor. Crowley didn’t want to know what it was or if it would stain.

The four humans chanted a series of phrases. Their intoned words bled into each other in Crowley’s mind, adding an eerie soundscape to the darkness falling on the house.

Aziraphale stood on the edge of the circle, fidgeting as his pocket watch ticked down the seconds until he was to step forward. Agnes was infuriatingly vague about what would happen once Aziraphale entered the circle at nautical twilight. All she said was: “He shall come to be as he no longer was, then shall come thrice more.”

 _Two plus two, for whom love proves most._ Anathema sat across from Newt, and Tracy sat opposite Shadwell. Crowley had his doubts about that last pairing but he didn’t know any other couples on the island other than Sam and Rebecca Johnson, and they’d spooked the Johnsons thoroughly last night. He wasn’t about to ask them for anything else.

Finally, it was time.

The chanting stopped and all four humans took an anticipatory breath as Aziraphale stepped forward. Crowley held his.

For a minute that seemed to hang suspended in time, nothing happened. Aziraphale looked around, bemused. He held his hands in front of his body in a posture of polite waiting with a hint of barely-hidden annoyance. He pursed his lips but didn’t move out of the circle.

“My dears, I don’t think it’s-”

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s head snapped up. He looked to the ceiling where he seemed to see something no one else could and his expression became puzzled. Like his train had arrived early and he wasn’t quite prepared to step onboard. A bright light appeared overhead, shining down on his white curls, making them glow fiercely in the dimly lit sitting room. His face, always pale and shimmery, went translucent, then flickered, briefly into solidity. His blue eyes opened wide in shock.

Aziraphale took in a very deep breath, a real one, pulling actual air into his body, then flung his arms over his head. 

He said, “Oh, _fuck_ —”

Then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Ameche is very old slang for telephone. It’s specifically American slang from the 1920s so I think it’s plausible Aziraphale would’ve picked it up when the house first got a phone.
> 
> -That's rough, buddy is Avatar the Last Airbender. Never to have loved and lost is Tennyson. There's an X Files reference in here somewhere too but I'll be darned if I can remember what it was now that I'm writing notes. Oh! I found it and it’s extremely subtle. “Assaulting” your telephone - read that in the same voice Mulder uses when he says “assaulted your frying pan” in The Post-Modern Prometheus.


	10. I'm a stranger in town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! We've got about 2k words of hurt to get through before the comfort. I know this starts out rough but I promise we're getting there. No cliffhanger this time. Scout's honor. There may be a bit of a break before the next chapter because I'm just about caught up to where I've written ahead. Chapter 13 is drafted but 11 and 12 aren't yet. (Why am I like this. Every single time.)
> 
> Ten million thanks to Scrapbramble for beating!

The harmony of the circle on the floor with the humans joining hands around it broke immediately.

There was a moment of panic, where everyone was shouting and looking around frantically for the ghost who no longer lent his presence to the room. Then, Newt stood and took charge. He ushered Shadwell and Tracy to the kitchen with clear instructions to make tea. With the two adults settled, he returned for Anathema, who was staring at her hands, still smeared in what Crowley didn’t want to think of as blood, and muttering in confusion.

Crowley stood in the center of the circle, trying to sense Aziraphale. He couldn’t. Aziraphale was gone.

The panic took a moment to arrive. When it did, it was like plunging head-first into cold water. He was shaking. His teeth chattered in his jaw and despite the mild autumn weather, he felt cold down to his bones. 

“Aziraphale?” he said, at first only able to whisper. When the next words came to him, they came in a scream. “Are you here? Aziraphale! Where are you? I can’t find you—”

He turned around and around in the circle, looking down at his feet to the place where Aziraphale had stood mere moments ago. Instead of his sensible ghostly Oxfords, there was nothing but Crowley’s leather boots and scuffed chalk. He remembered denying Aziraphale’s presence when he’d first arrived, thinking himself ridiculous for even entertaining the notion that his house was haunted. He’d yelled at the garden for scaring him, and yelled at himself for believing he wasn’t alone. Now that he was alone, all he wanted was to go back and find the ghost who teased him with twinkling eyes and whispers and smiles.

“I don't understand,” said Anathema, “the spell should’ve worked! Everything went right. He should be restored, exactly how he would be if he'd never—”

Crowley didn't stay long enough for her to finish the sentence.

He shoved past the gate to Abaddon Cottage, ignoring Anathema’s questions and the looks on the faces of people passing by. The night was clear and the full moon had already risen high on the horizon. In the twilit sky, it looked like the moon’s bloody shadow had replaced it.

All he could hear was the slapping of his feet on the pavement and the thundering roar of his heart. Crowley had never been a runner. He preferred to saunter, always moving at a pace that suggested he was in control and would arrive exactly when he intended and not a moment earlier. 

Tonight, he ran.

Crowley ran through the residential streets that surrounded the cottage, occasionally passing people out on evening strolls. He ran through a series of backyards, knowing he’d reach the perimeter path and that he didn’t have time to waste on the manicured streets dodging horses carrying carriages full of tourists on a sunset ride around the island. Kids playing on grass lawns looked at him strangely as he vaulted over the white picket fences that separated them from their neighbors. He ignored them, concentrating on not falling.

He knew exactly where Aziraphale would be.

* * *

Crowley slowed from an all-out sprint to a jog, then a careful shuffle. Ahead of him on the rocks, a barefoot man stood facing the open water. He didn’t turn as Crowley approached. The figure on the beach wasn’t white and didn’t shimmer or glow. Everything about him, including his skin, was gray. He looked drab, washed-out like the weathered skin of a boat left to bob on the waves for too long without care. The light was quickly fading, taking his shadow with it. Aziraphale had never before been solid enough to cast a shadow.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called out cautiously. He reached the edge of the paved path and stood for a moment, considering how he should approach. Water dripped steadily from the tails of Aziraphale’s coat. Dirty lake water streamed from his hair and clothes, pooling on the rocks where he stood. The soles of his feet were rough and bleeding but he didn’t seem to notice.

“It was the same as the first time.” He sounded like the words hurt his throat on their way out to the world. The voice was Aziraphale’s but he sounded different. Though the figure on the beach was more solid than he’d ever been before, his voice sounded far, far away.

Crowley inched closer, trying not to slip on the sharp, jagged rocks. 

“Angel-”

“It was very dark, all of a sudden.” Aziraphale still looked out at the water. A wind was gathering on the lake’s edge, occasionally whipping his wet trouser legs with a sickening slap. “The shock of it, and the cold, it makes you forget to struggle at first. That happened the first time, too.”

Crowley inched forward, reaching out his hands. Whether he was steadying himself or reaching for Aziraphale, he wasn’t sure. He just knew that what he needed was right outside his grasp. “I just need to know you're okay,” he said.

“The cold stops after a moment. Then you don’t feel it anymore. There's probably a reason for that. Shock, maybe.”

“Angel, are you here?”

“It's very quiet. There’s a stillness that pulls at you, though you’re desperate to breathe and your heart is beating like an inconvenient drum. It feels wrong for it to beat so loud because down there everything is heavy and quiet.” Aziraphale coughed and the sound was too wet. It was a sick gurgling sound Crowley never, ever wanted to associate with Aziraphale.

“Angel, please-” 

“I struggled. But the first time, I-” He stopped. Aziraphale stared out at the lake. The stars were waking slowly as if they’d been scared off by the red light of the moon. The water whispered its endless song as it caressed Aziraphale’s bare, bleeding feet.

“Aziraphale-”

“The first time, I let go,” Aziraphale said, and the words sliced through Crowley. “I looked up at the dim light coming from the surface. Just a thin barrier, that’s all it was. A line of green light that separated me from the world of the living. I couldn’t reach it. So I let go.” 

“Angel,” Crowley whispered. He was afraid to reach out with anything other than his voice, afraid that passing his hand through Aziraphale might make him disappear forever. He wanted—he _needed_ to know Aziraphale hadn’t gone where Crowley couldn’t reach him. But he couldn’t see how the laughing ghost with the smiling eyes was the same man standing before him looking out at the black. How had this gone so wrong?

“This time was different,” Aziraphale said. He looked down at his hands. “As I reached for the light this time, I thought, ‘Crowley is waiting for me. He’ll be worried. He’ll try to boil water for tea and he’ll burn down the house and what good will that do anyone? I’m in the deeps and Crowley is waiting for me.’”

Aziraphale still hadn’t moved. His voice was thin, a choked whisper stolen by the cold wind. 

“So I kicked. I kicked and kicked and—I lost my shoes. Maybe I never had them? I don’t remember. My lungs felt as though they would burst and my head felt pressed on all sides and my ears rang-” Aziraphale paused, looking out at the water that had tried to claim him for a second time. “But I reached the surface. I found the light and, this time, I came ashore.”

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Aziraphale turned. His eyes were far darker than Crowley remembered. Instead of the skin of his eyelids crinkling with a smile, they were shadowed with dark purple splotches. He looked more hollow than he ever had while he existed as only a soul.

Aziraphale seemed to see him there for the first time. Lake water joined the tears streaming from his eyes. He spoke from trembling purple lips, and said, “I'm here, Crowley. Please take me home.”

* * *

Anathema met them at the gate.

She started to scold Crowley for leaving, fire in her eyes and furious words halfway out of her mouth, but she stopped when she saw the state of Aziraphale’s feet. The anger and fear in her expression turned instantly to worry. Anathema set her mouth in a determined line and called out to Newt.

“Bring us as many towels as you can find!” she shouted. “And a bucket of warm water!”

Aziraphale had been quiet on the slow, painful walk home. He let Crowley lead him back to Abaddon Cottage, his arm slung around Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley supported as much of his weight as he could, leading the dripping man through the streets of the island. He kept to the roads this time, ignoring stares from the people who passed them by. Most were headed to the lighthouse, eager to use the lunar eclipse as an excuse to hold a party.

“Here’s some tea, love,” Tracy said, pressing a cup into Aziraphale’s hands as soon as he entered the parlor. He was dripping on the tile.

Aziraphale nodded and accepted the steaming cup, inhaling the steam. He didn’t seem to remember he could take a drink now.

“We’re here, angel,” Crowley said. He carefully let go, waiting to make sure he wouldn’t fall before stepping aside.

“Let’s get you dried off, dear.” Tracy carefully took his overcoat and bowtie. She gently toweled off his hair and draped a blanket around his shoulders when he started shaking hard enough to make the tea slosh out of his mug and join the lake water pooling on the tile.

Crowley followed as Tracy and Anathema slowly led Aziraphale up the stairs. No one needed to ask where they’d take him. When they made it to the landing of the second floor, Newt put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, holding him back. He pressed a clean towel into his hands and said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He had no idea if it was true.

Once he made it up to the third floor and into the bath, Aziraphale seemed to slowly come awake. He sat on the edge of the clawfoot tub and rubbed his feet with the towels. Blood and dirt sloughed off, staining the first one he used. Tracy and Anathema hovered in the doorway, waiting for Crowley to give them a sign. He nodded, not at all sure that everything would be okay. They both nodded back, serious looks on their faces.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, partially to them and partially to reassure himself. “I’ll run him a bath and-”

“We’ll check on you in the morning, dear.” Tracy’s voice was kind. He remembered it grating on his ears when he first arrived. He’d had to build a tolerance to the aggressive kindness of the people on this island. It was like a scab, slowly healing over the wounds inside of him. He nodded his thanks to the women who’d helped him, time and again, without him asking. 

Aziraphale was staring at the wall. In his sodden shirt and trousers, he looked a little pathetic. A sad ghost sitting on a clawfoot tub in the house he used to haunt. Crowley gently took the bloody towel from him and started the bath. He checked the temperature and turned the cold water tap to bring down the temperature.

“Don’t want to warm you up too quickly,” he said, finding the silence much too loud. “I remember that from- something or other.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Let’s uh, get you out of these clothes.” Crowley didn’t move to help him out of his clothes and Aziraphale hadn’t moved from his seat on the edge of the tub. All of this was wrong. He’d imagined Aziraphale without clothes many times. In his mind, he’d undone the buttons on his shirt slowly, kissing him all the while. Or ripping the shirt apart, laughing as Aziraphale fussed over the damage, and pressing smiling kisses into his skin. “Angel, clothes?”

He started, seeming to come out of his daze. Aziraphale looked down at his state and clucked his tongue. “This won’t do,” he murmured, more to himself than Crowley. It was a start.

When he was down to soggy pants, Crowley turned away. He gathered the wet garments and put them in the sink, holding his arm out for the pants. His cheeks warmed and he felt a hot flush of shame crawling over his skin. Aziraphale hadn’t seemed to notice or mind. He handed Crowley his underthings and stepped into the tub. 

Crowley expected him to hiss at the contact when the raw skin of his feet entered the water. Or, he expected a sigh at the warmth and the steam filling the bathroom with a wet, cozy closeness. Aziraphale did neither. He sat in the tub and pulled his knees to his chest.

“I’ll um, leave you to it, then,” he said. “But I’m not closing the door, angel.” Crowley sank to the floor. He sat on the other side of the wall and leaned his head against the doorframe. He sucked in a few breaths and tried to feel relief. He tried to remember he’d gotten what he wanted. Aziraphale was here. Wasn’t he?

On the other side of the wall, Aziraphale was quiet. Neither spoke. Aziraphale seemed to stay still, not able to fight against another body of water, even one warming him. Crowley couldn’t stand the thought of him alone in the water but didn’t want to crowd him. He should’ve known this would happen. How could he have known this would happen? He’d been so excited at the prospect of Aziraphale coming back that he hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences of what that might mean. Aziraphale had. And yet he’d gone ahead with the ritual anyway. Crowley’s chest felt too full. His ribs couldn’t contain the storm raging inside him. Still, the room in the attic of Abaddon Cottage was quiet.

“Okay in there?” Crowley called out when he couldn’t bear the silence any longer. “Don’t stay in too long, you’ll wrinkle.” There was a bit of splashing as Aziraphale rearranged himself.

“Yes, I'm- I'm still here, dear.” He almost sounded like Aziraphale. Almost.

“You can use my toothbrush if you want,” Crowley said, not sure why that was the sentence that had come out of his mouth. From inside the bathroom, he heard Aziraphale chuckle.

“I think I'll pass, darling.” More splashing as Aziraphale stood and exited the tub. Crowley heard rustling sounds he assumed meant Aziraphale was drying himself off. After another moment of silence, he said, “I'll use the paste, though.”

The tap water ran for a bit, then Aziraphale yelped in surprise. “Oh, it's mint!”

Crowley smiled. “Yeah, angel, mint. Didn’t they have toothpaste in your day?”

“It was powder. And it tasted terrible,” came the reply. “One of the many marvels of the modern world I’ve never had the occasion to try.”

Aziraphale spit into the sink, then ran the tap again before emerging. His hair was tousled and his face scrubbed. He looked fresh and a little wild, like a man who'd come in from a long journey away from civilization. In some ways, he had. Now that color had returned to his cheeks, Crowley was again struck by how beautiful he was. Aziraphale didn't glow the way he had before but his face was no less gorgeous. His eyes were no less expressive without a ghostly gleam. 

And he was only wearing a towel around his waist.

Crowley gulped, trying to suppress his body's reaction to seeing Aziraphale, cleaned up and naked before him. 

“Why don't you, uh, take the bed.” Crowley scrambled up and stood next to Aziraphale awkwardly. Side by side in the small room, he realized how Aziraphale usually faded, his ghostly form not taking up space the way a human would. Now that he was here, _really_ here, the room felt crowded. 

“Nonsense, Crowley. We can share.” He sat down on the bed and looked up at Crowley expectantly. He looked anxious now, awkward. Aziraphale folded his hands on the towel in his lap and chewed at his lip. That, all things considered, was an improvement over the blank stare of the man on the beach.

Crowley nodded. He could do this. He could share a bed with Aziraphale. He could share a bed with a _naked_ Aziraphale. Crowley cleared his throat and stripped off his own shirt and trousers. He tossed them aside with no concern for their whereabouts and lay down on the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight, angel,” he said, hoping to return to some sense of normalcy while knowing that they couldn’t go back to what they’d been before. Seeing Aziraphale, alone on the rocks, knowing he’d been plunged into the depths of the lake alone, made Crowley ache. It made him angry, too. It made him seethe with rage against the world that had brought them together but in the wrong time. He—he was tired. 

Crowley closed his eyes. The back of his hand was mere millimeters from Aziraphale’s. Instead of the tingling thrum of ghostly energy, he felt warmth. Aziraphale was here with him. He was _real_. The breath hitched in Crowley’s throat. It was too much to bear, having him here so close and still not touching.

Next to him, Aziraphale breathed in and out evenly. Crowley could feel the rise and fall of his chest and hear the intake of his breaths. Neither moved. A cool breeze drifted through the room, bringing with it the smell of the lakes and all the possibilities the night held. 

They still didn’t touch.

Slowly, carefully, Crowley turned his hand over. He lifted up his hand and reached for Aziraphale, palm up. He heard Aziraphale’s deep, halting breath, then felt Aziraphale’s skin, so soft against his own. Their fingers twined. He held onto Aziraphale. Crowley squeezed his hand tightly, never ever wanting to let him go.

Aziraphale held him back.

Crowley wasn't sure whether he turned first or if it was Aziraphale who shifted, bringing them together. It didn't matter because finally— _finally_ —they were kissing, bodies and hands pressed tight to one another. Their mouths clashed when they met, teeth clicking and lips sliding awkwardly. Crowley didn't care one bit. He kept kissing Aziraphale. 

_He was kissing Aziraphale._

They eventually found a rhythm. Crowley tilted back a little and Aziraphale tilted forward and that was all it took for them to fit together perfectly. Aziraphale moaned into his mouth and clutched tightly to his waist.

When they separated, Crowley said, “I can stop, angel-” 

They were both breathing heavily and hadn't let go of each other's hands. His wrist and fingers tingled from being smashed under their bodies and entwined with Aziraphale's, but he wouldn't move it. He'd let his hand go numb, he'd leave it be forever if it meant holding onto Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale, we don't have to do anything,” he said. “You're recovering from- and if you're tired and you need to rest, I can let you- I don't need to-”

His words were drowned in a forceful kiss. Aziraphale held him firmly and thrust his tongue into his mouth. Crowley melted into it. Aziraphale tasted not of the sea, but of mint. Ordinary toothpaste and saliva and a tongue that explored Crowley’s mouth desperately, searching for a place to belong. 

When he finally pulled back, Aziraphale was breathing heavily. “I need to, Crowley,” he said.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He kept a firm grip on his side. Crowley could feel him, could feel the hardness pressing into his thigh, solid and warm and _here_. When he opened his eyes, Crowley saw a wave rising. This was the Aziraphale of his fevered dreams. This was the Aziraphale who took him apart with a word, a glance, a whisper. Aziraphale, finally, was _here_.

“I need to touch you, darling,” he said. “Now that I can.” He stroked his hand from Crowley’s waist to his hip, asking with his hands.

“You can. Yeah, angel, oh God, you can-”

He didn't need to be told twice. Aziraphale let go of Crowley's hand and rolled on top of him. It was the same position he'd held before, floating above Crowley in his spectral body while Crowley writhed under him. But this time, Crowley could feel his body pressing him to the mattress. He felt Aziraphale's erection as he ground their hips together.

“Angel-”

Before he could stop him, Aziraphale was kissing his way down Crowley's body. He got to Crowley's navel before Crowley came to his senses. He clutched at Aziraphale's shoulders.

“Wait, let me- I should be taking care of you. You don't have to-”

Aziraphale put a firm hand on the center of his chest. He pushed Crowley back down on the mattress, following him and covering him in kisses. He kissed Crowley's lips, then his neck, his sternum, his chest. Aziraphale took one of Crowley's hands in his and kissed his fingers.

“No, darling,” Aziraphale said. “I've been at sea for two hundred years. You've called me home and I intend to drink my fill of you.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley's wrist, then down his forearm. Crowley watched in amazement as the ghost that had driven him wild in the dark became a man—a beautiful man determined to kiss every inch of him, but a man nonetheless. Crowley saw the wrinkles around Aziraphale’s eyes and the lines that accompanied his smile. He saw how bushy Aziraphale's eyebrows were and how his eyes weren't actually blue but some kind of grey-green that changed with the light. His lips, those plump teasing lips that whispered words of desire and restraint to him, were chapped from the wind that had whipped around him as he made his way here.

Aziraphale, the _real_ Aziraphale, not the ghost that showed up only when he wanted to tease and faded when it was convenient, was _here_.

When he kissed Crowley's hip, he couldn't help but twitch. Aziraphale, instead of teasing, bit down on his hip bone, then tongued at the skin to soothe it. He smirked when Crowley squirmed under him, torn between a tickle and the deeply arousing sensations of Aziraphale's tongue.

“Angel, if you're going to tease-”

Aziraphale pulled back and said, “If I'm going to tease, then what, Crowley?” He unceremoniously pulled Crowley's underpants aside and took his cock in hand.

“I- oh, fuck-”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale said, smiling and stroking him slowly. He met Crowley's eyes and kept them as he lowered his lips. Aziraphale closed his lips around the head of his cock and they both moaned. Crowley felt the vibration of it as Aziraphale tasted him for the first time.

After the first gentle lick, Aziraphale pulled back off. “Oh my dear, it's-”

Crowley bent forward and captured his lips in a kiss. He plopped back down and covered his eyes with his arm. It was too much. He felt so-

“I've wanted to taste you, darling,” Aziraphale said, “and now-”

Crowley forced himself to look. Aziraphale's eyes were shining with feeling. 

“Yeah, yeah, angel,” was all he could say.

Aziraphale took him into his mouth again, this time swirling his tongue around the head before swallowing him as far as he could. He was awkward at first, not quite sure how to coordinate his movements and keep his balance on one hand while the other held the base of Crowley's cock. Even so, Crowley loved every single second that he was in Aziraphale's mouth. He tried not to thrust his hips up, letting Aziraphale set the pace instead. When he tentatively reached out and put his hand in Aziraphale's white curls, he sped up and made a pleased sound that sent a rush of feeling surging through him.

“Angel, I'm going to-”

He couldn't finish the sentence. Aziraphale kept still while Crowley came with a gasp, arching his back and digging his heels into the mattress. The high of it seemed to last forever while everything else fell away. Crowley let the feelings come over him and didn't resist. Aziraphale had brought him to the brink and when the waves crested it felt even better than he could've imagined.

“All right?”

“Yes, god yeah, angel that was-” He pulled Aziraphale into a sloppy kiss, trying to tell him without words how he felt. When he pulled back, Aziraphale was grinning so widely it could've lit up the room. “Do you want me to-”

Aziraphale kissed him again. He shook his head. “No. Just like this, please, I-”

Crowley reached between their bodies. Aziraphale was holding him close, pressed between the mattress and his body like he was afraid Crowley would float away if he wasn't held—as if he had ever been the one to drift away. Crowley held the back of Aziraphale's neck and cupped his hard cock as best he could while their bodies were smashed together and Aziraphale thrust into his hand. 

“It's been a very long time since I- oh, Crowley, I'm not going to last-”

“'S okay,” Crowley said. “Come for me, angel.”

It only took a few more thrusts before Aziraphale was coming in hot spurts into Crowley's hand. He buried his face in Crowley's neck and gasped into his skin. Crowley stroked the short curls at the back of his neck and held him close until he stopped shuddering

“Let's get you cleaned up.” Crowley gently removed himself from Aziraphale's grip. He retrieved a towel and cleaned them both before tossing it in the direction of the bathroom. Aziraphale smiled at him while he gently wiped away the come from his belly. 

“Will you still be here in the morning?” Crowley asked.

“I don't know, darling,” he replied as his eyes closed and they both drifted to sleep. Aziraphale held him tightly. “I don't know.”

* * *

Crowley was in a garden. He was surrounded by vines that grew far too fast. They coiled around him, creeping up his legs, sprouting flowers and new offshoots as they rose. He panicked, grasping and tearing at the vines that had already reached his waist. Crowley cried out, desperate to escape— 

Next to him, joyous laughter rang out.

Aziraphale was covered in vines. They curled around him, hugging his broad shoulders and sprouting little buds. He giggled and shimmied as the green tendrils tickled his skin.

As Crowley watched, the buds flowered. They sprouted, and soon shining bunches of grapes weighed down the vine. Aziraphale picked a grape from the bunch and held it out. He pressed the grape to Crowley's lips.

Crowley accepted it, crunching the grape between his teeth and tasting the sweet juices burst in his mouth. Aziraphale smiled and laughed. His lips were shining, wet with juice. Crowley spit the pit out on the ground, gazing at Aziraphale in the sunshine as the vines grew around them. 

He woke with his mouth full of fluffy white hair. The room was turning from grey to pink with the flush of sunrise. The morning light crept toward them and Aziraphale was still here.

With the scent of Aziraphale in his nose and the heavy warmth of his body in Crowley's arms, Crowley returned to sleep and didn't dream of anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> [say hi on Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles)


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